OF  THE 

uNiVEBsmr 

r>      OF       ^ 


The  Library  of  French  Fiction 


EDITED  BY 

BARNET  J.  BEYER 


iiliiifi 


ANJOU 


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BRITTA^n(' 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68i  Fifth  Avenue 


THE  STORY  OF 

i   GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   P 

FOLLOWED  BY 

FORGOTTEN 


BY 

CAMILLE  MAYRAN 

Translated  by 
VAN  WYCK  BROOKS 

Author  ot  "  Letters  and  Leadership  *' 
"  The  Ordeal  ob  Mark  Twain,"  etc 


Copjrright  1920 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  Statet  of  Ameriea 


MaVHsz 

mo 


CONTENTS 


The  Story  op  Cotton  Connixloo  ....  i 

CBAPTEft 

I I 

II 39 

III 62 

Forgotten 95 


ivi645682 


THE  STORY  OF 
GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 


THE  STORY  OF 

GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 


CHAPTER  I 

The  village  of  Metsys,  the  gray  roofs  of  which 
cluster  on  the  Flemish  plain  not  far  from  Malines, 
has  preserved  intact  to  this  day  a  beautiful  church 
in  the  flamboyant  style.  Its  irregular  fagade  resem- 
bles an  old  face  covered  with  wrinkles  whose  kindly 
and  mysterious  smile  conceals  a  world  of  secrets. 
About  the  curves  of  its  porch  are  coiled  garlands  of 
flowers  and  fruits.  The  tympanum,  in  which  appears 
the  Virgin  Mary  with  angels  paying  homage,  quivers 
with  a  beating  of  wings.  A  pointed  gable  surmounts 
the  porch  and  repeats  the  sharp  angle  of  the  roof. 
From  the  cross-aisle  of  the  transepts  rises  a  belfry  so 
delicate,  of  such  exquisite  lace-work,  that  one  might 
expect  it  to  tremble  in  the  wind  or  with  the  vibration 
of  the  sprightly  chimes  that  issue  from  it  on  Sunday 
mornings.    Around  the  apse  sleep  the  tombs. 

The  traveler  who  arrives  at  Metsys  in  the  even- 


2   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

ing  of  a  rainy  day  walks  a  long  time  across  the  rich, 
monotonous  countryside,  passes  villages  whose  dung- 
heaps  are  almost  as  big  as  cottages,  skirts  canals  where 
the  black  vessels  on  the  glistening  water  seem  to  be 
drifting  in  a  mournful  dream — a  dreary  journey! 
When  he  sees  the  ethereal  belfry  thrown  up  against 
the  narrow,  amber-colored  belt  of  the  horizon,  he  has  a 
sudden  joyful  sense  of  relief.  The  shaft  of  stone 
draws  up  toward  heaven  the  sighs  that  lose  them- 
selves sorrowfully  in  the  immensity  of  the  plain.  Re- 
vived as  if  by  a  sign  of  welcome  and  hope,  the 
traveler  hastens  on;  and  if  at  dusk  he  stops  in  the 
square  planted  with  lime-trees,  where  a  little  foun- 
tain chatters  in  the  midst  of  the  humble  houses, 
ranged  in  a  circle,  with  a  few  ducks  splashing  in 
front  of  them,  if  he  surveys  the  old  church,  calm, 
arrayed  in  its  jewels,  he  will  perhaps  tremble  with 
delight  as  if  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  grotto  of  the 
fairies. 

For  nearly  twenty  years — they  assure  me  that  the 
German  occupation  has  not  changed  things  in  any 
way — the  inhabitants  of  this  little  square  have  seen 
entering  their  church,  every  day  at  noon  and  again 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  a  tall,  thin  personage,  bent 
over  nowadays,  and  with  a  beard,  long,  very  black, 
which  has  begun  to  whiten;  it  is  the  bell-ringer  and 
chorister,  Connixloo.  When  he  has  sounded  the 
Angelus,  he  crosses  the  square  with  his  long  and 
mechanically  rapid  steps,  regains  his  little  house,  which 
is  situated  in  front  of  the  church,  and  seats  himself 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO       3 

at  the  cobbler's  bench  whither  the  people  of  Metsys 
carry  him  their  shoes  to  be  repaired.  He  is  a  solitary 
man;  the  goodwives  of  the  village  do  not  linger 
before  his  bench.  The  solemnity  of  the  Sunday  high 
masses,  at  which,  for  many  years,  he  has  sung,  alone 
and  upright  in  the  first  choir  stall,  has  endowed  him 
with  a  lasting  prestige.  His  spare,  melancholy  form, 
the  severe  expression  of  his  aquiline  nose  and  his 
closely-pressed  mouth,  are  intimidating.  They  respect 
his  silent  ways.  They  know  that  he  has  had  great 
misfortunes,  but  no  one  except  the  cure  ever  dares 
to  speak  to  him  about  them.  His  great  piety  en- 
velops him  in  mystery  and  protects  him  from  indis- 
cretions. People  say  that  he  is  a  man  who  has  com- 
munications with  another  world.  The  regular  frame 
of  his  life  is  a  niche  in  which  he  appears  like  a  saint, 
rigid,  withdrawn,  his  eyes  turned  heavenward.  Never- 
theless, if  one  examines  his  face  closely,  one  observes 
a  blinking  of  the  eyes  that  indicates  a  nervous  nature; 
if  one  seeks  his  glance,  one  feels  that  something  is 
astir  at  the  bottom  of  those  brown  eye-balls,  some- 
thing that  is  secreting  itself.  A  keen  observer  under- 
stands quickly  enough  that  in  his  hermit's  niche  the 
chorister  of  Metsys  shelters  an  apprehensive,  uncer- 
tain and  tormented  soul. 

This  man  was  once  married.  At  Metsys  his  con- 
temporaries still  recall  the  beautiful  wedding-feast 
given — a  full  twenty-five  years  ago — at  a  farm  in 
the  neighborhood  whence,  in  procession,  by  the  light 
of  lanterns,  through  a  snowy  winter  night,  they  led 


4   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

Jeanne  Maers  to  the  home  of  Connixloo.  There  had 
not  been  seen,  in  the  memory  of  man,  a  more  beauti- 
ful bride.  Two  years  after  the  marriage,  they  laid 
her  in  the  earth.  She  had  just  given  birth  to  a  little 
girl. 

Left  a  widower  before  he  was  thirty,  Connixloo  had 
never  wished  to  remarry,  in  spite  of  the  counsels 
which  people  did  not  fail  to  offer  him.  The  men  said 
to  him  at  the  wine-shop: 

"Live  without  a  wife,  Connixloo?  You  shouldn't 
think  of  it!  Besides,  it  would  look  badly  if  it  were 
known  that  the  chorister  of  Metsys  ran  about  after 
petticoats  V* 

He  replied  by  quoting  the  apostle  Saint  Paul  who, 
he  said,  wrote  an  epistle  to  advise  Christians  not  to 
marry  if  possible,  and  at  worst  to  content  themselves 
with  marrying  once.  This  attitude  so  astonished  them 
that  they  asked  themselves  if  the  beautiful  Jeanne  had 
not  given  him  cause  for  chagrin.  For,  thought  these 
men,  one  easily  forgets  a  wife  one  has  lost  but  not  a 
wife  who  has  deceived  one. 

The  little  girl,  who  was  called  Marguerite  at  her 
baptism  but  Cotton  by  custom,  was  sent  out  to  nurse, 
imtil  she  reached  the  age  of  three  years,  with  her 
mother's  family.  Then  Connixloo  wished  to  take  her 
into  his  own  home;  he  made  for  her  a  little  bed  with 
an  eider-down  quilt,  he  went  off  and  bought  her  two 
dolls  and,  without  reflecting  that  she  had  passed  the  age 
for  them,  a  dozen  embroidered  bibs.  The  grandmother 
having  died  in  the  course  of  these  three  years,  he  had 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO        5 

little  difficulty  in  recovering  the  child  from  two  young 
aunts  who  were  in  the  full  bloom  of  motherhood. 

When  little  Gotton  was  installed  at  Metsys,  she  at- 
tracted a  number  of  female  visitors  to  the  house  of  the 
severe  Connixloo.  They  came,  now  to  bring  her  a 
little  fresh  cheese,  now,  if  they  had  heard  she  was 
ill,  a  remedy  for  colds  or  colic,  or  again  they  would 
offer  to  take  her  to  play  at  such  and  such  a  farm 
where  there  were  little  children.  They  would  find 
her  trotting  about  the  stool  where  her  father  was  sit- 
ting plying  his  awl  or,  more  often,  squatting  before 
the  fireplace  and  interrupting  her  contemplation  of  the 
red  coals  with  sudden  capers  and  little  bursts  of 
laughter.  She  was  pretty  and  her  solitude  touched 
the  women's  hearts.  The  worthy  visitors  took  up 
again  with  the  widower  the  work  of  persuasion  which, 
with  the  clumsy  jokes  of  the  men,  had  come  to  naught. 

"You  don't  know  how  difficult  it  is  for  a  man  to 
bring  up  a  girl  and  keep  her  in  hand!"  they  said  to 
him.  "Chorister  as  you  are,  your  Latin  won't  help 
you  there,  Connixloo!"  There  was  in  particular  in 
the  village  a  widow  without  children  who  had  a  little 
property  and  had  convinced  herself  that  Connixloo 
could  not  fail  to  marry  her.  For  several  years  she 
had  counted  on  this,  telling  herself  that  after  all  he 
would  be  acceptable  for  a  second  marriage,  not  merry 
but  trustworthy  as  he  was,  and  as  for  the  rest  per- 
sonable enough  with  his  thin  nose  and  black  beard. 
She  went  to  his  house  several  times  a  week  and  passed 
many  a  night  preparing  her  dignified  but  eager  resig- 


6        THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

nation  to  a  marriage  which  was  never  offered  to  her. 
This  widow  and  several  other  women,  thereafter,  had 
no  good  wishes  for  either  Connixloo  or  his  daughter. 
To  their  exhortations  he  rephed:  "Bah!  the  stick 
two  or  three  times  a  year  keeps  them  in  order,  espe- 
cially when  there's  also  a  good  example  nearby/* 
The  women  would  return  to  their  homes  pitying  the 
little  girl. 

The  better  to  set  an  example  and  keep  himself  from 
temptation,  Connixloo  became  more  and  more  devout. 
His  duties  in  the  church  procured  for  him,  so  to  say, 
a  quite  special  intimacy  with  the  Eternal.  When  he 
spoke  of  the  things  of  God,  from  the  Holy  Trinity  all 
the  way  down  to  the  last  cruet  acquired  by  the  parish, 
it  was  with  the  seriousness,  the  proud  modesty  and 
that  suggestion  of  a  special  understanding  of  the 
privileged  servitor.  The  priest  had  made  him  the 
gift  of  a  very  advanced  catechism  of  the  diocese  of 
Malines.  He  instructed  himself  in  it  in  the  evenings, 
on  his  return  from  sounding  the  Angelus,  when  he 
had  finished  his  work  and  settled  the  little  girl  for  the 
night.  Sitting  on  his  bed  and  bending  over  toward 
the  candle,  he  scrutinized  the  difficult  points  of  doc- 
trine and  jostled  his  way  painfully  among  the  learned 
and  incomprehensible  vocables.  However,  some  light 
was  born  at  various  points  in  his  study  and  he  experi- 
enced a  dry  and  silent  joy.  On  Sunday,  at  the  wine- 
shop, he  would  discuss  theology  with  the  school- 
master, the  burgomaster  and  a  few  farmers.  He  had 
very  precise  ideas  concerning  the  distinction  between 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   7 

mortal  sins  and  venial  sins — and  they  were  not  reas- 
suring. He  also  spoke  very  readily  about  indulgences 
and  would  enumerate  for  you  with  a  confidential 
winking  of  his  eyes  and  almost  with  the  air  of  a 
gourmet  the  pilgrimages  which  he  had  made,  the 
scapularies  with  which  he  was  provided.  Then  he 
would  terrify  the  easy-going  company  by  adding  with 
a  great  blow  of  his  fist  on  the  table:  "For  all  that, 
my  friends,  if  you  have  on  your  conscience  a  single 
little  mortal  sin  unconfessed,  all  these  things  will 
slide  off  you  like  water  from  a  duck's  back.'* 

Gotton  was  growing  up  and  people  wondered  that 
she  was  so  well-behaved.  At  seven  years  she  began 
to  go  to  school  and  she  stayed  there  until  her  first 
communion.  After  that,  she  was  sent  for  three 
months  to  stay  with  her  aunts  at  the  Maers  farm 
where  they  taught  her  to  look  after  the  cows,  milk 
them,  churn  the  cream  and  make  butter  and  various 
kinds  of  fresh  cheese.  She  entered  joyously  into  all 
these  labors,  in  company  with  the  little  cousins  of 
her  own  age.  The  laughter  of  these  children  stirred 
her,  and  still  more  the  kisses  that  she  saw  them  con- 
tinually receive  from  their  mothers.  Filled  with  a 
strange  emotion,  in  which  a  keen  pleasure  was  mingled 
with  distress,  she  laughed  more  loudly  than  the  others 
and  in  turn  hung  on  the  neck  of  the  youngest  of  her 
aunts,  who  was  gentle  and  pretty  and  was  nursing 
her  last  baby.  For  this  young  woman  she  conceived 
a  sort  of  passion,  seeking  her  out,  following  her  with 
her  eyes,  and  calling  for  her  aloud  at  night  in  her 


8   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

dreams.  Because  of  this,  they  considered  her  peculiar, 
and  they  censured  once  more  the  obstinacy  of  Con- 
nixloo. 

When  three  months  were  over,  little  Gotton,  fairly 
well  instructed  in  the  arts  of  dairying,  tearfully  left  a 
house  that  was  too  full,  too  busy,  and  too  happy  for 
anyone  to  think  of  regretting  her.  It  was  the  oldest 
of  her  aunts  who  brought  her  back  to  Metsys.  This 
woman  whispered  into  the  ear  of  Connixloo,  as  she 
left  the  little  girl  with  him :  "She's  a  dear  little  thing ; 
but  she's  going  to  give  you  some  yarn  to  unravel !" 

Meanwhile  Connixloo  put  in  order  a  little  stable, 
long  unused,  that  stood  at  the  back  of  the  house,  on 
the  side  where  a  little  kitchen-garden  adjoined  the 
fields  which  stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
He  had  just  invested  the  greater  part  of  his  savings 
in  the  purchase  of  two  beautiful  cows,  selected  in  the 
market  of  Malines.  When  she  saw  these  magnificent 
red  and  black  animals,  steaming  in  the  autumn  morn- 
ing and  beating  the  hollows  of  their  flanks  with  their 
enormous  tails,  Gotton  felt  comforted  again.  Her 
father  told  her  that  she  must  take  them  to  pasture 
every  day  as  she  had  seen  her  cousins  do,  milk  them 
morning  and  evening  and  prepare,  as  she  had  also 
just  learned  to  do,  fresh  cheese,  which  a  dairyman 
from  Malines  would  send  for  twice  a  week.  Gotton 
was  twelve  years  old.  She  felt  that  she  was  being 
treated  like  a  grown-up  person  and  this  experience 
filled  her  at  the  same  time  with  pride  and  sadness. 
The  deep,   mysterious  sense  of   something  missing 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO        9 

troubled  all  her  thoughts.  She  recalled  her  pretty 
aunt  and  the  laughter  of  her  cousins,  and  she  thought 
to  herself:  "It's  all  over,  then;  I'm  not  a  child  any 
more!"  When  she  had  spoiled  her  first  batches  of 
cheese,  her  father's  stick  removed  this  illusion  some- 
v^hat;  but  in  saying  to  herself,  "I  am  no  longer  a 
child,"  she  realized  above  everything  else  that  she  was 
living  without  anyone  to  kiss  her.  In  fact,  nobody 
did  kiss  her,  and  in  her  solitude  she  experienced  hours 
of  languor  when  the  need  of  caresses  made  her  lips 
tremble. 

Connixloo  had  discouraged  feminine  attentions ;  be- 
sides, a  little  girl  of  twelve  years  no  longer  appeals  to 
the  maternal  instinct  in  anyone  but  her  own  mother, 
and  if  no  widow  or  girl  in  the  village  any  longer 
thought  of  marrying  the  bell-ringer,  so  also  there  was 
no  longer  any  woman  who  cared  to  look  after  Gotton. 
The  child  grew  up  neglected,  dreaming  by  herself 
whole  afternoons,  in  the  pastures  whither  she  took 
the  cows.  Later,  when  she  recalled  this  period  of 
her  life,  she  remembered  the  sensation  of  mist  that 
penetrated  her,  hour  after  hour,  benumbing  her  mind 
and  chilling  her  blood.  Her  recollections  condensed 
themselves  into  images  of  autumn,  heavy  and  gray. 

In  the  desolate  monotony  of  this  life,  she  soon  for- 
get her  pretty  aunt  and  her  counsins  and  the  gayety  of 
the  Maers  farm.  She  forgot,  also,  everything  that  she 
had  learned  at  school.  The  care  of  the  stable  and  the 
raising  of  a  few  vegetables  absorbed  her  thoughts. 
Under  the  weight  of  silence,  her  spirit  took  root  in  the 


10      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

earth,  that  ample  and  exacting  mistress.  One  pleas- 
ure alone  remained  to  her,  one  admiration,  one  source 
of  reverie:  this  vvas  the  old  church.  She  did  not  like 
the  services,  where  she  saw  the  other  little  girls,  ar- 
rayed in  dresses  better  cared  for  than  her  own, 
grouped  about  a  mother  or  an  older  sister;  but  she 
loved  to  go  alone  to  the  church,  when  she  had  brought 
back  her  cows,  after  a  long  afternoon  in  the  meadows, 
to  warm  her  soul  in  the  flame  of  the  windows.  She 
would  watch  till  nightfall  the  scintillations  grow  more 
and  more  dim.  It  was  so  cold  outside,  and  so  dismal ; 
the  great  horizon  seemed  chilling,  the- crouching  cot- 
tages beside  the  muddy  road  had  the  look  of  poor 
shivering  cattle.  But  in  the  little  church  with  its 
strange  decorations,  full  of  fragile  and  confused 
objects,  an  inextinguishable  fire  made  the  windows 
quiver  eternally.  The  mystery  of  these  glassy  flames 
fascinated  the  child.  Her  eyes  feasted  on  the  shadowy 
purple  and  the  blue.  These  gemlike  fragments,  these 
burning  essences,  these  living  elixirs  offered  her  the 
spectacle  of  an  unwearying  ecstasy.  Contemplating 
them,  she  fell  into  an  abyss  of  reverie.  It  seemed  to 
her  so  beautiful,  so  astonishing  that  these  tiny  morsels 
of  glass,  brought  together,  should  so  continue  to  pal- 
pitate, to  burn,  through  the  pale  wet  winters  and  the 
dull,  inexorable  tedium  that  engulfed  the  countryside. 
She  marveled  over  their  incommunicable  secret,  that 
active  and  devouring  passion  which,  at  the  first  ray 
of  dawn,  revived  in  them.  And  perhaps  she  asked 
herself,  in  one  of  those  moments  of  spiritual  awaken- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      11 

ing  that  pass  almost  without  leaving  any  memory  be- 
hind, if  there  existed  somewhere,  under  the  surface 
of  the  earth  or  behind  the  clouds,  behind  even  the 
round  vault  of  the  clear  sky,  a  similar  hearth-fire  of 
life  and  ardor,  a  panting  heart  from  which  we  draw 
our  blood  and  our  soul,  and  all  love,  all  light,  all 
hope.  .  .  .  But  how  far  she  felt  from  that  divine 
hearth  and  what  a  thick  veil  of  mist,  earth  and  igno- 
rance lay  between  her  and  it! 

She  returned  to  her  home  with  an  absent-minded 
step,  her  soul  heavy  with  obscure,  unformulated  de- 
sires. She  found  her  father  seated  at  the  bench,  pale, 
his  head  bent  over  an  old  shoe.  He  rose  to  go  and 
sound  the  Angelus  and  prepare  the  cruets  for  the 
morrow's  mass.  She  lighted  the  lamp,  which  was  sus- 
pended by  a  brass  chain  and  pulley  from  the  ceiling. 
Then  began  the  long  silent  evening.  At  great  in- 
tervals Connixloo  would  ask  his  daughter  a  question 
or  give  her  an  order  relating  to  the  work  of  the  house. 
The  child  was  rather  afraid  of  her  father,  as  of  a 
power  she  did  not  understand.  She  obeyed  him 
strictly,  with  an  almost  mechanical  submissiveness. 
She  did  not  dream  of  asking  herself  if  she  loved  him. 
She  suffered  him  in  silence,  like  the  rain,  the  wind,  the 
long  winter.  Yet,  at  first,  Connixloo  had  meant  well. 
He  had  wished  that  his  little  girl  might  be  gay  and 
that  she  might  confide  in  him.  But  how  was  he  to 
bring  it  about?  These  women-to-be  are  so  mysterious 
already !  In  her  way,  Cotton  was  also  for  Connixloo 
a  power  not  to  be  understood.     Vexed  at  his  own 


n      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

clumsiness,  he  had  given  up  hope  of  pleasing  and 
yielded  to  his  natural  inclination  for  a  harsh  taci- 
turnity. 

In  his  presence  the  child  felt  even  more  lost  than 
in  the  somnolent  immensity  of  the  fields.  Seated  in 
a  corner  of  the  hearth,  watching  over  the  soup,  she 
hoped  that  he  would  not  speak  to  her  and  gave  her- 
self up  to  the  slow  play  of  her  dreams.  They  were 
sorry  images,  for  the  most  part,  earthy  and  trivial, 
that  unrolled  themselves  in  her  head.  But  at  times, 
athwart  the  dull  torpor  of  these  memories  that  seemed 
to  compose  her  whole  spirit,  there  would  pierce  a 
strange  aspiration  which  for  Gotton  resembled  noth- 
ing that  words  could  express,  a  humble  longing,  naive 
and  melancholy,  to  be  no  longer  Gotton  Connixloo, 
watcher  of  cows  under  a  rainy  sky — a  dream  with- 
out words,  almost  without  images,  powerful  enough 
nevertheless  to  half  awaken,  amid  the  dull  weight  of 

misery,  the  very  depths  of  her  being. 

***** 

Seven  years  had  passed  and  Connixloo  sometimes 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  murmured:  "Dear  God!  how 
quickly  a  girl  grows  up!"  He  perceived  almost  sud- 
denly that  the  child  had  become  a  woman  and  that 
she  was  very  beautiful.  The  transformation  aston- 
ished him  as  if  it  had  been  the  work  of  a  single  morn- 
ing. Gotton  was  nineteen  years  old  and  from  the 
vigorous  body,  which  had  grown  big  under  its  hum- 
ble garments,  amid  heavy  labors,  breathed  now,  like 
a  soft,  vague  perfume,  the  mystery  of  womanhood. 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      13 

She  was  as  silent  as  ever;  but  in  this  silence,  which 
had  formerly  seemed  dull  or  shamefaced,  Connixloo 
now  suspected  a  vague  menace.  **Yes,"  he  said,  "they 
were  right;  it  i^n't  easy  to  know  what  a  girl  has  in 
her  head."  She  was  like  her  mother,  a  true  Fleming, 
while  he  was  of  Walloon  blood.  He  could  not  think 
without  a  sense  of  uneasiness  about  that  flowering 
young  woman  whom  he  had  loved  all  too  vehemently. 
Yes,  truly,  he  had  wished  not  to  be  reminded  that 
for  Jeanne  Maers  he  would  once  have  sold  his  soul. 
The  thought  of  it  still  troubled  him,  in  spite  of  that 
sudden  and  pathetic  end  of  hers  in  her  first  childbed, 
and  he  was  vexed  with  Gotton  for  it. 

She  had  that  ample  beauty  of  Flemish  women,  bold, 
florid,  animated,  with  smiling  curves ;  yellow  hair  that 
hung  down  her  back  like  a  golden  cord  ten  times 
twisted  and  knotted,  a  powerful  neck  of  a  misty, 
pearly  whiteness,  cheeks  of  a  texture  as  luminous  as 
peonies  newly  blown  in  the  dawn  of  a  spring  day. 
Bright  little  locks  flew  about  on  her  smooth  forehead. 
Her  slender  eyebrows  traced  a  long,  tapering  golden 
curve  above  the  little  eyes,  which  were  so  clear,  so 
fresh,  so  transparent  that  they  seemed  like  the  shim- 
mering of  a  spring  inexhaustibly  renewed. 

Wnat  did  they  signify,  the  scintillations  of  these 
little  eyes?  That  is  what  Connixloo  asked  himself 
sometimes,  gripped  with  a  sudden  disquietude,  when 
the  silent  Gotton,  her  lips  moist,  her  cheeks  radiant, 
returned  from  the  meadows  with  the  cows.  He 
watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  cot- 


14      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

tage,  upright  between  the  clumps  of  geranium  which, 
without  doubt,  owed  to  their  proximity  to  the  dung- 
heap  the  red  vigor  of  their  corollas.  Vaguely  he  per- 
ceived that  there  was  something  sensual  and  voluptu- 
ous in  the  lingering  gait  of  this  beautiful  girl,  in  the 
balancing  of  her  shoulders  and  her  robust  hips.  It 
was  May.  He  thought  to  himself:  "She  has  changed 
since  winter.  Perhaps  it  is  imprudent  to  let  her  pass 
her  days  alone  in  the  fields.**  The  unfolding  of  this 
flower  of  youth  was  to  him  nothing  but  a  heavy  care. 

"I  must  get  her  married,**  he  said  to  himself  again. 
But  she  was  headstrong,  and  already  in  the  course  of 
the  year  she  had  turned  her  back  on  several  offers  in 
the  village,  why,  no  one  was  able  to  understand. 

"Nothing  new?*'  he  asked  her,  as  she  reached  the 
doorstep. 

"Nothing,**  she  replied.  There  was  never  anything 
new.  Why,  then,  that  strange  light  at  the  back  of 
her  eyes,  that  little  ingenuous  flame,  mischievous  and 
merry?  To-morrow  he  would  go  himself  to  surprise 
her  in  the  fields. 

Toward  three  o'clock,  on  the  morrow  of  the  day 
when  his  confused  fears  had  resulted  in  this  resolu- 
tion, Connixloo  crossed  the  village  and  followed  the 
path  between  the  beet-fields  as  far  as  a  strip  of 
pasturage  that  bordered  the  outskirts  of  a  little  wood. 
Gotten  was  standing  there,  close  to  her  cows,  upright 
in  the  thick  grass,  a  knitted  stocking  in  her  hand. 
But  her  needles  were  not  busy  and  she  seemed  to  be 
following  with  her  eyes  a  man  who  was  going  ofiE 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      15 

down  the  road.  Connixloo  looked  at  this  silhouette 
which  was  the  only  thing  stirring  on  the  plain.  It 
was  that  of  a  man  with  large  shoulders,  almost  squat, 
who  limped  as  he  walked.  He  was  going  bare-headed, 
and  one  could  distinguish  that  his  hair  was  red.  On 
the  side  of  his  shorter  leg  he  carried,  suspended  from 
his  hand,  something  that  shone  and  seemed  to  be 
heavy.  This  had  the  look  of  a  bundle  of  scythes,  ob- 
serving which  Connixloo  reflected  that  the  first  hay 
harvest  was  not  far  off.  He  stopped  a  moment,  per- 
plexed, troubled,  then  he  at  once  felt  reassured:  a 
lame  man!  He  accosted  Gotton,  who  had  not  seen 
him  coming. 

"Good  pasturage  here  for  your  cows?" 

Gotton  turned  her  head  without  showing  any  sur- 
prise, but  the  blood  was  in  her  cheeks. 

"It's  you,  father?  The  grass  is  good,  yes!  And 
the  day  is  fine,  too!" 

If  Connixloo  had  felt  any  suspicion,  he  would  have 
said  nothing  about  it  to  his  daughter,  in  order  that 
without  awakening  her  distrust  he  might  watch  her 
the  better.  But,  already  relieved,  he  asked  her,  to  make 
positively  certain: 

"You  haven't  spoken  to  anyone?'* 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Indeed!    And  to  whom?" 

"You  don't  know  him.  A  blacksmith  from  Iseghem 
who  sometimes  passes  by  here." 

"And  how  do  you  happen  to  know  him?" 

"He  has  spoken  to  me  on  the  road." 


16      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Gotton  knitted. 
In  a  sharp  voice  Connixloo  returned: 

"And  is  it  a  long  time  since  you  struck  up  this  fine 
acquaintance?" 

"When  I  was  harvesting  at  Iseghem  last  summer, 
he  repaired  the  ring  of  my  scythe." 

Connixloo  recollected  the  bundle  of  glittering 
blades  which  he  had  observed  in  the  distance.  He 
asked: 

"Was  he  the  man  who  was  going  along  the  road 
just  as  I  came?" 

"Perhaps." 

"He's  lame?" 

"That  may  well  be,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
irritation. 

"And  why  have  you  never  spoken  to  your  father 
about  this  acquaintance?" 

Gotton  turned  her  little  shining  eyes  upon  her  father 
and  did  not  reply. 

Connixloo  felt  himself  invaded  by  a  strange 
emotion  in  which  fear  prevailed  over  anger.  If  Got- 
ton had  lowered  her  head,  if  she  had  been  confused, 
if  she  had  had  an  air  of  deceitfulness,  she  would  have 
made  him  furious;  but  this  direct  frankness  and  this 
burning  glance  made  him  shiver.  He  had  a  sudden 
sensation  of  the  abyss  into  which  an  avowal  could 
throw  him.  "I'll  watch  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She 
looks  as  if  she  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to 
say  something  surprising."  And  he  addressed  her 
more  calmly: 


THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO      17 

"Listen,  Cotton,  you  know  that  I  don*t  wish  this 
sort  of  thing.  You  can  marry  any  day  you  please. 
There's  no  lack  of  fine  fellows  at  Metsys  whom  youVe 
turned  up  your  nose  at.  If  you  wish  to  remain  a 
lass  you  are  free  to  do  so.  If  you  don't  wish  to 
remain  a  lass,  take  a  husband.  But  not  along  the 
roads,  you  understand.  I  have  not  brought  you  up  in 
honor  and  religion  for  you  to  turn  your  back  on 
suitable  offers  and  then  run  about  having  love  affairs 
in  the  fields." 

Cotton  did  not  protest  her  innocence  and  made  no 
promise:  she  was  silent.  Connixloo,  without  know- 
ing why,  felt  discountenanced  before  this  silence  which 
might  be  taken  for  respect.  He  took  his  pipe  from 
his  pocket,  and  when  he  had  filled  it,  with  slightly 
trembling  fingers,  he  said: 

"That's  enough  grass  for  the  cows  to-day;  come 
home  with  me." 

With  the  goad  Cotton  pricked  the  two  red  cows, 
which  were  bent  over  ruminating,  and  urged  them  on 
before  her.  It  was  a  pity  to  go  home  so  soon.  The 
sky  was  a  mild  clear  blue  and  along  this  edge  of  the 
wood  one  could  hear  the  ringdoves  cooing.  They 
walked  side  by  side,  gloomily,  all  the  way  to  the 
village.  Connixloo  smoked  his  pipe,  turning  over  his 
troubled  thoughts,  and  Cotton,  filled  with  bitter  agita- 
tion, raised  her  arm  from  time  to  time  and  let  it 
droop  wearily  over  the  spine  of  one  of  her  cows. 
When  she  had  put  her  animals  in  the  stable  to  wait 
for  milking-time,  she  returned  to  the  low  room  where 


18      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

an  old  ham,  left  from  winter,  hung  from  the  black 
rafters  of  the  ceiling,  among  the  strings  of  onions. 
Her  father  was  awaiting  her,  standing  close  to  the 
window,  nervously  biting  his  thumb.  But  now  that 
she  was  there,  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her. 
His  table,  with  the  instruments  all  ready  and  several 
pairs  of  boots  promised  for  the  end  of  the  week,  in- 
vited him  to  work.  He  made  an  attempt  to  apply 
himself.  Gotton  meanwhile  stirred  the  fire  and  blew 
with  the  bellows  on  the  cinders.  She  wanted  to  say 
something  friendly;  she  felt  pity  for  her  father  be- 
cause he  was  sad,  and  also  because  he  was  hard.  Lift- 
ing her  hand  toward  the  leather-colored  ham,  she 
said: 

"Would  you  like  me  to  set  it  soaking,  father,  so 
that  you  can  invite  his  reverence  to  eat  it  with  us  on 
Sunday  ?'' 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Connixloo,  "and  I'll  go 
and  see  him  right  away." 

Indeed  he  did  not  hesitate  a  moment,  but  left  the 
house  at  once.  To  the  priest  he  unburdened  himself 
of  half  of  his  anxieties. 

"Don't  worry  yourself  too  much,  my  good  Con- 
nixloo," the  priest  said  to  him.  "You  have  always 
set  her  a  good  example,  and  that  won't  be  lost.  Only, 
you  must  remember,  she's  young;  ion't  make  her 
life  too  dull.  Young  blood  may  easily  turn  to  vice 
within  when  it  is  not  allowed  to  boil  up  a  little,  hon- 
estly, outside.  Gotton  is  a  good  child,  but  she  has 
always  had  notions  in  her  head.    Watch  over  her  and 


THE  STORY  OP  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      19 

amuse  her  sometimes.  And  then  send  her  to  me 
soon  so  that  I  may  talk  with  her.  Good-bye,  Con- 
nixloo,  and  thanks  for  Sunday.     It's  agreed!" 

The  next  day  Connixloo  left  the  house  on  Gotton's 
heels  and  by  a  circuitous  path  reached  the  little  wood 
on  the  border  of  which  he  had  found  her  the  after- 
noon before.  He  saw  that  she  was  again  in  the  field 
and,  concealing  himself  behind  a  thorn-bush,  he  re- 
solved to  watch  her  till  the  hour  of  her  return. 

"I  shall  know  better  whafs  going  on,"  he  thought; 
"perhaps  it's  not  for  nothing  that  she  has  come  back 
to  the  same  spot."  He  spread  himself  out  flat  on 
his  stomach,  his  elbows  buried  in  the  moss,  over  which 
crept  little  wreaths  of  flowering  periwinkle.  The 
wood  was  full  of  a  sweet  odor  of  fresh  verdure;  the 
bees  murmured  in  a  blossoming  cherry-tree  and  on 
the  higher  branches  of  the  oaks  the  ringdoves,  whose 
confused,  harmonious  voices  seemed  as  if  emerging 
from  a  serene  half -slumber,  interchanged  their  long, 
faint  breathings  of  delight.  Now  and  then,  from  the 
glowing  web  of  their  lower  notes  there  would  spring 
forth  a  sharper  cry,  more  joyous,  more  imperious, 
flung  from  the  full  throat  of  a  little  bird,  a  cry  that 
lifted  itself  amid  these  murmurs  like  the  voice  of  a 
little  child  triumphantly  born  from  the  languors  and 
raptures  of  love. 

Connixloo  had  entered  this  festival  of  spring  as  a 
stranger,  and  behold,  his  spirit  was  insensibly  lend- 
ing itself  to  the  influences  with  which  the  air  was 
alive.    He  recalled  that  he  had  been  a  huntsman  when 


20      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

he  was  young,  and  the  freshness  of  those  far-of! 
dawns  when  he  had  lain  in  wait  for  the  fox  on  the 
edge  of  a  clearing  came  back  to  his  memory  with 
their  odors  of  dead  leaves  and  damp  grasses.  It  was 
a  long  time  since  he  had  thought  of  that,  long  since 
he  had  found  himself  thus,  alone  and  motionless,  amid 
the  rustling  and  the  fragrance  of  thousands  of  lives 
of  which  we  are  unaware.  Something  strange  passed 
over  him,  a  slight  displacement  as  it  were  of  his 
spiritual  axis,  and  the  touch  of  the  warm,  mossy  soil 
set  running  through  his  dry  limbs  a  tremor  of  well- 
being  that  seemed  like  youth. 

Stretching  his  neck  he  could  see,  between  two  haw- 
thorn bushes,  the  bordering  meadow  bathed  in  that 
fair,  liquid  light  that  issues  from  between  two  clouds. 
Gotton  was  there,  upright  in  the  golden  shower, 
against  an  overcast  horizon.  She  looked  as  fresh  and 
radiant  as  a  beautiful  image  in  her  green  and  blue 
striped  petticoat  and  her  little  figured  fichu  of  the 
color  of  faience  knotted  behind  her  white  swelling 
neck.  Connixloo  considered  her  for  a  long  time  and 
little  by  little  he  almost  forgot  why  he  had  come  to 
lie  in  wait  in  the  wood;  he  forgot  Gotton;  he  saw 
again  Jeanne  Maers  whom  God  had  taken  from  him, 
he  believed,  because  she  had  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
salvation:  Jeanne  Maers,  beautiful  as  a  morning  in 
May,  as  a  meadow  all  in  flower,  as  a  garden  bursting 
into  blossom.  He  remembered  that  it  was  just  so 
that  he  had  prowled  about  her,  hidden  himself  to 
watch  her  at  his  ease,  to  quench  the  thirst  which  he 


THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO   21 

had  for  seeing  her,  those  days  of  his  twentieth  year 
when,  on  fire  with  love  as  he  was,  he  had  not  dared 
to  make  his  proposal.  And  at  a  single  bound,  in  a 
single  wave,  as  if  he  had  never  made  pilgrimages  nor 
burned  candles  in  order  to  obtain  forgetfulness  of 
Jeanne,  the  impassioned  recollections  of  his  marriage 
invaded  his  whole  being:  again  he  saw  the  young 
bride,  smiling  and  timid,  on  the  nuptial  bed,  turning 
toward  him  that  radiant  face  like  a  great  rose  which 
his  kisses  could  not  crush.  That  vision,  with  all  the 
amorous  and  delightful  frenzy  it  evoked,  so  pro- 
foundly agitated  him  that  he  longed  to  walk,  to  talk 
in  order  to  dominate  the  violence  of  desire  and  to  re- 
cover his  own  true  self,  Connixloo,  the  chorister  and 
bell-ringer,  the  man  without  weaknesses,  whom  no 
woman  was  able  to  make  deviate  by  a  hair's-breadth 
from  the  straight  path.  But  the  necessity  of  remain- 
ing hidden,  of  keeping  his  watch,  recalled  him  to  the 
present:  he  had  come  to  keep  his  eye  on  Gotton,  whom 
he  suspected  of  being  a  prey  to  that  same  fever,  to 
that  same  fiery  delirium  the  remembrance  of  which 
had  just  disturbed  his  own  blood.  Angrily  he 
smothered  that  strange,  momentary  apparition  of 
dream  and  vertigo;  he  ground  his  teeth  and  felt  in- 
creasing in  him  the  detestation  which  he  had  for  these 
errors  of  the  flesh  whose  redoubtable  enticings  had 
just  humiliated  him. 

Gotton  had  descended  to  the  edge  of  the  road  and, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  she  seemed  to  be 
looking  and  waiting  for  the  approach  of  someone. 


ftZ      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

Connixloo  watched  her,  his  eyes  strained,  his  heart 
throbbing.  And,  sure  enough,  at  the  turning  of  the 
road,  he  saw  rising  a  silhouette  which  he  recognized 
at  once ;  it  was  the  lame  blacksmith  of  Iseghem,  whom 
he  had  seen  the  afternoon  before.  This  time  he  car- 
ried on  his  shoulder  two  great  pickaxes.  He  was 
walking  quickly.  Perhaps  he  would  only  bid  her 
good-day  in  passing;  he  had  the  air  of  going  to  his 
work.  But  no:  he  approached  Gotton,  climbed  over 
the  ditch  to  meet  her  in  the  meadow.  He  was  quite 
near  her  now ;  he  seemed  to  be  talking  to  her,  his  eyes 
plunged  in  hers.  Connixloo  distinctly  saw  his  blue 
shirt,  his  black  leather  apron,  his  red  beard;  he  saw 
his  gestures  which  seemed  to  express  at  once  entreaty 
and  disappointment;  but  he  could  not  catch  a  single 
word.  What  were  they  saying  that  was  so  important? 
Connixloo  had  expected  bursts  of  laughter,  a  little 
flirtation,  some  jokes.  And  there  they  were,  both  of 
them,  speaking  in  low  voices,  sadly,  one  would  have 
said,  and  Gotton,  with  her  head  hanging,  had  an  air 
of  not  knowing  what  was  going  to  happen  to  her. 
At  the  end  of  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  she  turned 
toward  the  cows,  which  were  grazing  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  meadow,  and  drew  the  blacksmith  after 
her.  Together  they  stood  looking  at  the  beautiful 
tawny  beasts,  with  their  rosy,  swelling  udders,  and 
Gotton  began  to  stroke  one  of  them  on  the  forehead. 
Then  the  blacksmith  excitedly  took  her  head  between 
his  two  hands  and  overwhelmed  her  face  with  a  storm 
of  kisses.     She  did  not  resist  him;  her  ingenuous 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      23 

arms  encircled  the  frame  of  this  man  and,  like  a  still 
innocent  Eve,  she  let  herself  be  embraced  in  the  open 
field,  before  the  vast  horizon,  in  the  free,  light  flow 
of  the  breeze,  without  even  thinking  of  seeking  shelter 
under  the  foliage  of  the  little  wood. 

Connixloo  rose  up  between  the  hawthorn  bushes; 
he  was  choking  with  indignation.  He  would  have 
bounded  forward;  but  he  was  not  armed,  and  this 
man,  this  lame  fellow,  had  the  shoulders  of  a  wrestler, 
and  could  kill  him  with  one  stroke  of  a  pickaxe. 

Frozen  with  fear  and  shame,  he  trembled,  and  his 
fury  only  increased  because  he  did  not  dare  to  move. 
The  unknown  one  was  still  pressing  Cotton's  temples 
between  his  hands,  and  their  embrace  was  not  yet 
ended. 

At  last  she  seemed  to  shudder  and  straightened  her 
neck  again;  he  let  her  disengage  herself.  Then  she 
looked  at  him  smiling,  with  the  beautiful  young  smile, 
shy  and  radiant,  that  Jeanne  Maers  had  had — and  on 
the  rough  shoulder  she  placed  her  golden  head. 

Connixloo  could  endure  it  no  longer.  He  fled  away 
through  the  wood.  The  man  and  the  girl  turned  about 
at  the  sound  of  the  hastily  trodden  branches,  and  the 
man  said:  "It's  the  roe,  Cotton,  looking  for  its  hind." 

When  Cotton  had  brought  the  cows  home,  she 
lighted  the  fire  in  the  great  low  chamber  which  smelt 
of  leather  and  bacon.  She  hung  up  the  pot,  by  a 
double  chain,  to  two  hooks  fixed  at  the  right  and  left 
of  the  fireplace,  and  began  to  peel  on  her  knees  the 
onions  and  potatoes  for  the  evening  soup.     She  was 


24      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

surprised  and  pleased  that  her  father  was  not  in  his 
customary  place  at  the  shoemaker's  table.  The  soli- 
tude prolonged  in  her  the  echo  of  the  strange  words 
that  she  had  heard,  words  that  were  terrifying  and  de- 
lightful: "I  am  hungry  and  thirsty  for  you.  Since 
I  saw  you  at  the  harvest  at  Iseghem,  I  have  never  had 
a  day  of  peace;  you  can't  understand  the  pain  it  is. 
Every  day  beside  the  other  one,  disgust  poisons  me 
more  and  more,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  my  whole  life 
has  passed  into  my  desire  for  you.  That  can't  go  on, 
you  see,  Gotton;  if  only  you  could  understand  this 
pain,  you  would  know  that  it  couldn't  go  on." 

No,  Gotton  did  not  know,  did  not  understand ;  but 
as  her  shining,  artless  glance  plunged  into  the  eyes  of 
the  man  who  spoke  to  her  thus,  she  saw  burning  there 
a  warm,  palpitating,  fascinating  flame  that  astonished 
and  lured  her  as  had  once  the  purple  fires  of  the  mys- 
terious old  church  windows.  Still  she  defended  her- 
self; she  said:  "But  your  wife?  .  .  .  But  your  chil- 
dren? .  .  .  But  my  father?  .  .  .*'  And  he  murmured 
more  ardently:  "I  love  you!"  At  times  also,  he 
answered  her  directly:  "My  wife  will  go  to  live  with 
her  parents,  who  are  rich  and  have  never  helped  us. 
She  hasn't  the  least  affection  for  me;  she  will  only 
be  angry,  not  sorry.  It  will  do  her  good  to  be  able 
to  say  evil  things  about  me.  And  your  father?  .  .  . 
But  your  father  doesn't  love  you ;  he  guards  you  like 
a  goldpiece,  like  a  thing  that  might  be  stolen  from 
him.  As  for  me,  I  love  you.  .  .  .  You  are  for  me 
like  my  own  eyes,  like  my  own  blood." 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      25 

And  he  made  plans  for  the  future.  He  explained: 
"The  smithy  at  Meulebeke  has  been  for  sale  ever  since 
the  blacksmith  died  two  years  ago.  I  have  the  whole 
custom  of  the  village;  I  work  for  Meulebeke  as  well 
as  for  Iseghem,  and  I  have  put  a  little  aside,  thanks 
to  beating  the  iron.  I  could  buy  the  smithy  now. 
We  could  live  there  together;  you  would  never  see 
your  old  acquaintances  any  longer  and  no  one  would 
make  any  trouble  for  you." 

Yesterday  he  had  told  her  this  again,  and  she, 
knowing  that  she  could  no  longer  find  in  herself  the 
strength  to  resist,  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying  to 
her  father:  *T  love  that  man,  that  lame  man,  whom 
you  saw  walking  along  the  road.  He  has  just  been 
with  me.  He  wants  to  carry  me  off  to  live  with  him, 
although  he  is  married.  Don't  say  anything  evil  of 
him,  but  see  what  you  can  do."  Yes,  she  had  been 
on  the  point  of  speaking,  for  she  was  afraid  to  com- 
mit a  sin;  but  she  had  not  been  able:  her  father  was 
too  unfeeling,  too  hard,  too  inalterable,  and  then  per- 
haps he  wouldn't  have  the  courage.  She  had  felt  the 
afternoon  before,  when  he  had  finished  questioning 
her,  that  he  would  try  to  escape,  that  he  would  not 
listen  to  her. 

To-day,  she  had  not  tried  to  argue  with  this  man; 
she  had  no  longer  had  the  strength  to  say  no,  and  she 
found  she  was  no  longer  strong  enough  to  leave  him. 
To  his  wild  entreaties  she  had  only  responded  with 
a  murmur:  "We  shall  be  damning  ourselves."  He 
had  closed  her  mouth  with  kisses. 


26      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

How  pale  and  dim  the  twilight  seemed  through  the 
window ! 

The  soup  was  boiling  now  in  the  pot.  Why  had 
her  father  not  yet  come  home  ?  Gotton  arranged  the 
bread,  beer  and  cheese  on  the  table.  She  felt  dull 
and  sad,  lost  in  this  present  moment  that  was  uproot- 
ing her  from  the  past  and  beyond  which  everything 
was  uncertain.  Even  her  gestures  bespoke  the  con- 
fusion in  her  mind.  For  a  long  time  she  remained 
standing  at  the  corner  of  the  table,  gazing  at  the  frag- 
ment of  sky  framed  by  the  little  squares  of  the  win- 
dow. From  the  depths  of  the  shadowy  room  this 
blue  ember  of  the  evening  seemed  like  an  eye,  tender, 
burning,  insistent,  full  of  secrets.  With  a  great 
shudder,  Gotton  finally  turned  about  and  lighted  the 
lamp. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  Connixloo  appeared, 
ghastly  white,  his  teeth  chattering. 

"Ah!  There  you  are!  Wanton!"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  low  and  trembling  with  fury.  "You  dare  to 
enter  your  father's  house?     Hide  your  face  then!" 

Gotton,  standing  before  the  fire,  looked  at  him 
petrified.    At  last  she  said: 

"Father,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  everything  yesterday. 
It  was  you  who  stopped  me.  And  what  have  you  been 
doing  to-day?" 

"What  have  I  been  doing  to-day,  hussy?  Is  it  for 
me  to  give  an  account  to  you?  I  know  what  I  have 
been  doing.  I  know  you've  let  yourself  be  embraced 
by  rascals  on  the  open  road;  that  youVe  rubbed  your- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      27 

self  like  a  wanton  against  a  man  who  doesn't  look  as 
if  he  wanted  to  marry  you.  And,  what's  more,  a 
cripple  !'* 

Gotten  did  not  respond.  Connixloo,  who  was  cold 
and  haggard,  helped  himself  to  a  basin  of  soup  to 
fortify  his  trembling  body.  While  he  was  swallow- 
ing it  in  great  gulps,  Gotton,  crouching  on  a  stool  in 
the  corner  of  the  hearth,  watched  him  in  a  fixed  silence 
while  he  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  those  words, 
that  half  confession,  which  she  had  just  uttered — 
"Father,  I  would  have  told  you  everything."  Had 
she  committed  the  irreparable  error?  Was  it  too  late 
to  frighten  her?  Did  there  remain  nothing  but  to 
cast  her  forth  and  consume  his  shame  before  the 
whole  parish?  As  on  the  day  before,  Connixloo  was 
afraid.  "No,  no,"  he  said  to  himself;  "no  avowals, 
no  confessions,  no  talking!"  He  feared  the  cunning 
or  the  audacity  which  this  simple  girl,  like  all  the 
others,  would  exercise  if  only  she  were  in  love.  Above 
all,  he  did  not  want  to  hear  the  verdict  of  dishonor. 
"There  is  still  time  to  prevent  the  worst,"  he  thought. 
"That  man  did  not  embrace  her  at  once.  It  even  took 
them  quite  a  while  to  come  to  it;  it  had  the  look  of 
being  the  first  time.  I  can  break  it  off  short  by  show- 
mg  her  that  i  am  the  master." 

He  wished  with  all  his  might  to  remain  the  one  who 
commands  and  chastises,  and  how  he  trembled, 
nevertheless,  for  fear  that  he  might  be  so  no  longer! 
How  he  trembled  lest  he  might  hear  her  say:  "What 
is  done  is  done;  you  can  no  longer  prevent  anything!" 


28      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

No,  once  more,  there  must  be  no  questions.  It  was 
too  dangerous.  In  his  anger  and  the  frightened  agita- 
tion of  his  thoughts,  he  guarded  with  a  mascuHne 
simpHcity  his  faith  in  violence.  Love,  to  his  rustic, 
ascetic  soul,  appeared  as  a  temptation  altogether  base, 
brutal,  carnal,  which  ought  to  be  crushed  in  the  body. 
When  he  had  swallowed  his  soup,  he  passed  into  the 
rear  chamber  and  came  back  with  the  stick  with  which 
he  had  formerly  punished  the  smallest  offenses. 

That  evening  Gotten  was  severely  beaten.  She  had 
not  asked  forgiveness  before  the  chastisement;  she 
was  not  even  surprised  that  her  body,  so  lately  trans- 
figured by  the  warm  glory  of  love,  should  now  have 
to  undergo  this  cruel  injury.  Standing  before  the 
hearth,  her  arm  resting  on  the  mantle-shelf,  she  bent 
her  back  under  the  blows  and  the  fire  lighted  with  a 
red  reflection  her  face  and  her  hair.  Connixloo  struck 
with  all  his  might,  relieving  his  anger.  "Wanton, 
wanton  V*  he  repeated  between  his  teeth,  and  his  breath 
came  short.  She,  meanwhile,  her  body  pierced  with 
sharp  pains  like  intercrossed  flashes  of  lightning,  felt 
in  this  sudden  hurricane  an  alleviation  of  her  trouble. 
More  and  more  she  bent  herself  over,  and  as  her  head 
drew  near  the  embers  she  saw,  outlining  itself  among 
them,  a  face  with  red  hair,  flushed  cheeks,  large,  dis- 
tended nostrils;  she  saw  appearing  there  the  burning, 
generous  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
going  to  belong. 

When  the  bell-ringer  had  tired  his  arms,  he  let  his 
stick  fall  and  said: 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   29 

"Now,  hide  yourself,  and  be  afraid  at  least,  even  if 
you  are  not  ashamed!" 

She  straightened  herself  painfully  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face  with  a  glance  in  which  there  was 
neither  fear  nor  shame;  then  she  dragged  herself 
away  toward  her  room,  supporting  herself  against  the 
wall. 

The  night  had  grown  entirely  dark.  That  evening, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  one  when  Jeanne  Connixloo 
had  quitted  this  world,  the  parish-folk  of  Metsys  put 
out  their  fires  without  having  heard  the  Angelus  ring. 

As  the  night  was  drawing  to  a  close,  Gotton,  who 
had  slept  a  few  hours,  rose  noiselessly  and  put  her 
face  to  the  little  window  of  her  room.  The  barley- 
fields  which  spread  out  on  this  side  were  still  black, 
but  the  horizon  was  beginning  to  grow  pale  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  night  were  slowly  lifting  from  the 
earth  her  shadowy  wings.  Aloft  the  sky  was  full  of 
stars,  the  stars  that  rise  in  the  deserted  hours  of  the 
night  and  whose  faces  Gotton  did  not  recognize.  She 
was  surprised  at  their  unfamiliar  aspect  and  she  felt 
a  sort  of  vague  satisfaction  to  see  that  it  was  not  the 
old  stars  of  every  evening  that  were  watching  her 
depart.  One  moment  she  remained  with  her  head 
resting  on  the  window-sill,  dreaming  of  what  she  was 
going  to  do.  She  heard,  quite  close  to  her,  the  cows 
rustling  the  hay  in  the  black  stable  and  lowing  in- 
dolently. The  first  crow  of  the  cock,  shrill  and  dreary, 
made  her  start  and  harshly  reawoke  her  nerve  for 
action.     She  had  no  time  to  lose.     In  less  than  two 


30      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

hours  Connixloo  would  be  getting  up  lor  the  morn- 
ing Angelus.  She  dressed  herself,  putting  on  her  new- 
est dress,  saying  to  herself  that  for  a  long  time  per- 
haps she  would  not  have  another  one.  Then,  feel- 
ing her  way,  for  she  was  afraid  to  light  a  candle,  she 
made  up  a  little  bundle  of  clothes:  a  few  chemises 
and  two  or  three  handkerchiefs,  which  she  tied  up  in 
a  fichu.  Then  she  took  her  sabots  in  her  hand  and 
half -opened  the  door  of  her  room.  The  size  of  the 
entrance  chamber  which  stretched  out  before  her  and 
which  she  would  now  have  to  cross  seemed  to  her 
immense.  The  deep  silence  and  that  gray  tinge  that 
was  beginning  to  glide  over  the  surface  of  things 
seemed  treacherous  and  formidable.  Gotton,  seized 
with  anguish,  turned  back  to  the  window  of  her  room. 
If  only  she  did  not  have  to  cross  that  kitchen!  But 
no,  the  window  was  too  small,  it  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Then  she  ventured  forth  again,  her  heart  beat- 
ing, among  the  invisible  obstacles,  the  phantoms  of 
the  past,  the  memories  of  fear  and  subjection  with 
which  the  place  was  peopled.  In  her  worsted  stock- 
ings her  feet  made  no  sound  on  the  tile  floor.  In- 
voluntarily her  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  her  father's 
table  where  the  thread,  the  pieces  of  leather,  the  pliers 
and  the  awl  were  spread.  In  a  half -hallucination  she 
saw  him  sitting  on  the  wooden  stool,  his  long,  thin 
legs  stretched  under  the  table,  his  shoulders  bent  over 
his  work.  It  seemed  as  if  he  might  turn  about  sud- 
denly and  demand  in  his  crabbed  voice:  "Where  in 
the  world  are  you  going  at  this  hour,  Gotton?"    And 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   31 

all  the  same  she  anxiously  strained  her  ears,  know- 
ing that  in  reality  her  father  was  asleep  in  the  back 
room  but  that  his  sleep  was  never  heavy  and  that  the 
tiny  footfall  of  a  mouse  would  make  him  start  up. 
To  open  the  door  was  terrifying.  Gotton  turned  the 
rusty  key  twice  in  the  lock  and  drew  the  iron  latch 
with  the  sensation  that  in  that  second  lay  the  whole 
of  her  destiny.  Connixloo  in  his  room  gave  no  sign 
of  awakening  and  already  through  the  half -open  door 
the  fresh,  pure  morning  burst  upon  the  face  of  the 
young  girl  and  stilled  her  heart. 

She  went  out,  put  on  her  sabots,  then  took  a  long 
breath.  The  little  square  was  deserted  and  silent. 
Nothing  was  to  be  heard  but  the  murmur  of  the 
fountain  under  the  lime-trees.  The  flowers  at  the 
window  were  beginning  to  take  on  a  dim  color,  but 
the  houses,  the  church  had  an  ashen  air,  a  strange 
pallor  on  their  sorrowful  faces.  Without  looking 
back,  her  little  bundle  in  her  hand,  Gotton  committed 
herself  to  the  road  over  which,  for  all  the  days 
before,  she  had  led  her  cows  to  pasture.  She  did  not 
walk  quickly ;  she  felt  pain  in  her  bones ;  but  this  ache 
was  almost  the  only  thing  left  to  remind  her  of  the 
blows  of  the  evening.  From  her  heart  it  was  as  if 
all  feeling  of  fear,  humiliation  and  bitterness  had  been 
washed  away;  there  existed  in  it  only  the  joy  of  at 
last  simply  and  bravely  obeying  her  instinct,  of  hav- 
ing shattered  the  chains  that  chafe  one's  hope  and  of 
walking  alone  in  the  clear  dawn  toward  the  unknown 
glory  of  love. 


32      THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO 

The  road  was  long  to  Iseghem  and  straight  be- 
tween the  beet-fields  and  the  fields  of  barley  waving 
in  the  breeze.  Gazing  at  the  undulating  grain,  which 
was  already  high,  Gotton  remembered  the  last  har- 
vest in  these  same  fields,  those  long  wearisome  days 
and  the  hours  of  sunset  when  the  girls  returned  to  the 
village  almost  staggering,  and  scattered  along  the 
road  their  tired  laughter. 

She  thought  of  the  day  when  she  had  gone  alone, 
during  the  midday  rest,  to  the  forge  of  Iseghem  be- 
cause the  ring  that  fastened  the  blade  of  the  scythe  to 
the  handle  was  broken  and  she  could  not  go  on  with 
her  work  any  more.  Again  she  saw  the  shadowy 
opening  of  that  forge,  yawning  beside  the  road,  which 
was  flooded  with  sunlight,  the  great  square  of  black- 
ness where  for  a  moment  she  could  scarcely  dis- 
tinguish even  the  naked  arms  and  the  red  beard  of 
the  blacksmith. 

"When  must  you  have  this  scythe?"  he  asked  her. 
He  spoke  in  a  strange  voice,  nervous,  joyous,  fierce. 
She  had  responded  timidly: 

"We  begin  work  again  in  an  hour." 

"In  an  hour?  And  when  do  you  expect  me  to 
have  my  dinner?  Well,  I  see  you're  counting  on  it; 
come  back  in  an  hour." 

His  cordial  accent  had  emboldened  her  and  she  had 
replied: 

"Bring  it  to  me  instead,  as  soon  as  youVe  finished 
it.  I  am  in  the  Widow  Rosalie's  field  and  I'll  give 
you  your  dinner  with  the  harvesters." 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      S3 

*1  hear  the  harvesting  isn't  dull  this  year.  Well! 
It's  agreed!" 

He  had  come;  she  had  served  him  his  food  and 
poured  out  his  beer.  And  after  that  she  had  often 
met  him  on  the  roads  and  sometimes,  between  the 
piles  of  sheaves,  she  had  seen  him  watching  her  with- 
out speaking.  When  she  met  this  glance  her  head 
swam;  for  a  second  her  eyes  could  not  see  any 
longer,  her  knees  wavered,  her  heart  melted  in  her 
breast.  But  this  vertigo  did  not  last:  it  was  like  the 
passing  of  a  strange  force,  a  burning  spirit  that  over- 
threw her  with  a  stroke  of  its  wing  and  at  once  re- 
sumed its  flight.  She  recalled  all  this  and  thought  also 
how,  at  the  approaching  harvest,  if  he  permitted  her 
still  to  hire  herself  out,  he  would  come  to  meet  her 
at  nightfall  and  that  instead  of  returning  with  the 
girls  she  would  walk  slowly  with  her  lover,  toward 
the  unknown  shelter  of  their  ardent  repose. 

She  was  drawing  near  Iseghem,  the  thatched  roofs 
of  which  she  saw  grouped  on  the  plain.  A  few 
clusters  of  trees  rose  up,  at  wide  intervals,  among  the 
fields,  or  more  often  a  screen  of  poplars  skirting  the 
gray  and  shining  mirror  of  a  canal.  The  little  hills 
on  the  horizon,  two  delicate  swellings  Hke  the  breasts 
of  a  child  of  thirteen,  bore  each  a  windmill.  The 
stiff  wings  of  white  canvas  began  to  turn  gayly  on 
the  milky  border  of  the  western  sky,  and  when  the  sun 
rose  opposite  and  seemed  to  make  the  green  earth  re- 
sound with  a  great  clash  of  cymbals,  the  two  mills 
were  lighted  up  with  quivering  wheels  of  pink  rays. 


34      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

Gotton  had  to  cross  Iseghem  to  reach  the  road  to 
Meulebeke.  There  she  would  wait.  He  whom  she 
was  seeking  hac*  said  to  her  the  day  before:  *'I  work 
as  much  for  Meulebeke  as  for  Iseghem;  in  fact,  I 
have  to  go  there  to-morrow  to  shoe  some  horses 
before  I  begin  my  work  at  the  forge." 

In  the  village  the  cocks  were  crowing,  the  last  song 
of  the  dawn,  and  their  voices,  answering  one  another 
from  farm  to  farm,  rent  the  azure  calm.  Some  young 
boys  were  harnessing  up  their  teams  and  setting  out 
for  the  fields.  Gotton  walked  past  the  forge:  she 
looked  at  the  black  opening  which  she  had  only 
entered  once,  that  midday  at  the  last  harvest.  Above 
it,  the  green  shutters  of  the  windows  were  closed; 
no  sign  of  life  appeared  in  the  house.  Was  the  black- 
smith still  sleeping  beside  his  wife?  Gotton,  with  a 
mischievous  smile  in  her  clear  eyes,  thought:  "It's 
the  last  hour  of  the  last  night !"  And  as  she  continued 
her  way  she  kept  her  mind's  eye  fixed  harshly  on  the 
image  of  that  woman,  that  Gertrude  Moorslede  who 
was  ugly  and  slovenly,  who  never  spoke  except  to  com- 
plain and  dragged  her  feet  as  she  walked.  She  did 
not  think  of  the  children;  her  willful  soul  was  not 
ready  for  remorse  that  day. 

The  road  from  Iseghem  to  Meulebeke  ran  along  a 
canal  bordered  by  poplars,  separated  from  it  only  by 
a  strip  of  pastureland.  Two  fallen  trunks  lay  side 
by  side  in  the  grass.  Gotton  sat  down  and  began  her 
wait.  She  waited  a  long  time.  Although  the  sun  had 
risen,  it  was  cold ;  the  thick  grass  drenched  her  to  the 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      S5 

ankles.  She  lifted  her  hand  to  her  hair:  it  was  wet 
with  dew.  The  fatigue  of  the  walk  added  to  the  lame- 
ness of  all  her  limbs;  for  a  moment  she  was  on  the 
point  of  weeping.  A  barge,  hauled  from  the  bank  by 
a  feeble  old  horse,  glided  along  the  canal.  The  master, 
standing  among  the  piles  of  merchandise,  regarded 
her  at  his  leisure.  A  few  men  on  foot  passed  along 
the  road;  they,  too,  looked  at  her,  and  she  was 
ashamed,  for  she  felt  that,  with  her  little  bundle  of 
clothes  and  her  chilled  face,  she  must  have  the  air  of 
a  girl  who  had  been  driven  from  home.  But  no  one 
said  anything  to  her.  For  the  first  time  she  was 
alone  in  the  world  and  shelterless,  and  she  felt  grow- 
ing in  her  a  desire  more  profound,  more  painful  than 
anything  she  had  ever  known  to  take  refuge  in  the 
arms  of  the  man  she  loved.  "But  when  will  he 
come?"  she  sighed  from  the  depths  of  her  heart,  and 
the  tears  overflowed  her  eyes. 

At  last,  along  the  deserted  road,  that  blue  blouse, 
that  unrhythmical  step.  ...  It  was  he !  She  rose,  ad- 
vanced to  meet  him  and,  with  lips  that  trembled  a 
little,  said  to  him:  "Luke  Heemskerck,  let  it  be  with 
me  now  in  all  ways  according  to  your  pleasure." 

He  stood  a  moment  contemplating  her,  too  startled 
to  speak  to  her;  he  looked  at  her  blue  lips,  her  fore- 
head damp  with  dew,  her  cheeks  damp  with  tears; 
then,  with  a  fierce,  hungry  spring  he  enclosed  her  in 

his  powerful  arms. 

*  *  ♦  *  ♦ 

The  second  Sunday  after  Gotton  had  taken  flight 


36      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

from  her  father's  house,  the  priest  of  Metsys,  having 
finished  his  homily  on  the  gospel  of  the  day,  coughed 
in  his  red  handkerchief  and  said: 

"Brethren,  charity  does  not  compel  me  to  hold  my 
peace  with  you  concerning  the  scandal  that  has  just 
desolated  our  parish ;  but  rather  it  compels  me  to  con- 
demn it  before  you  and  to  exhort  you  with  a  renewed 
vigor  to  hate  this  sin  of  fornication  against  which, 
from  the  first  to  the  last  page,  the  Holy  Scriptures 
never  cease  to  inveigh.  A  daughter  of  our  parish  has 
quitted  for  the  stinkpots  of  adultery  the  perfume  of 
a  sainted  hearth.  If  she  comes  back  to  us  some  day 
repentant  and  ready  to  do  penance,  God  will  inspire 
us  to  pardon  her.  But  let  not  the  pity  that  is  shed 
upon  the  breast  of  the  contrite  sinner  be  confused  in 
your  eyes  with  that  culpable  indulgence  for  the  sin 
which  has  grown  so  common  among  the  lukewarm 
souls  of  this  generation.  Remember,  brethren,  that 
the  horror  of  the  sin  ought  to  extend  even  to  the  sinner 
himself,  so  long  as  he  does  not  disavow  his  crime  and 
continues  to  insult  the  law  of  God.  Remember  that 
the  adulteress  should  be  shunned  more  strictly  than  a 
leper  because  it  is  a  leprosy  of  the  soul  which  she  is  in 
danger  of  communicating.  Have,  then,  no  conversa- 
tion or  intercourse  with  her,  let  not  her  name  be  pro- 
nounced in  a  Christian  home.  Thus,  brethren,  you 
will  perhaps  serve  her  soul,  since  God  does  not  dis- 
dain to  utilize  the  chastisement  for  the  conversion  of 
the  sinner — and  more  surely  still  you  will  serve  your 
own  souls  and  those  of  your  children  whom  it  Is  your 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      3T 

mission  to  keep  securely  in  the  pathway  of  heaven. 
May  it  be  so!" 

This  anathema  was  heard  by  the  parishioners  of 
Metsys  in  a  profound  silence  which  covered  very 
diverse  feeHngs.  The  young  girls  lowered  their  eyes 
and  their  faces,  which  expressed  all  the  subtleties  of 
feminine  confusion.  The  simpler  ones  had  only  a 
sense  of  discomfort  mingled  with  that  intense  curiosity 
which  agitates  a  child  before  whom  a  comrade  is 
about  to  be  whipped.  The  more  pious  blushed  pain- 
fully in  the  presence  of  the  glimpsed  evil.  But  those 
who  already  knew  or  divined  something  of  love 
shuddered  to  think  that  that  which  passed  so  mys- 
teriously and  so  poignantly  in  the  secrecy  of  their 
heart  and  in  that  profound  and  hidden  sense  which 
has  no  name,  could  blaze  out  so  before  the  eyes  of 
all  and  suddenly  assume  that  face  of  infamy. 

Among  the  men,  a  few  felt  an  inclination  to  laugh, 
and  those  who  were  burdened  with  evil  thoughts  said 
to  themselves:  "Is  it  because  he  has  a  tender  feel- 
ing for  the  little  one  that  he  is  so  severe  in  his  anger  ?" 
The  others  seemed  profoundly  pained.  The  mothers 
pressed  their  lips  tight  and  turned  their  heads  in  order 
to  shed  on  all  sides  their  signs  of  approbation.  Yes, 
indeed,  these  latter  censured  Gotton  and  dragged  her 
in  the  mire  before  their  daughters ;  but  they  were  also 
remembering  their  own  matronly  counsels:  "Remarry, 
Connixloo ;  you'll  never  in  the  world  be  able  to  bring 
up  a  girl  all  alone!"  She  who  had  waited  so  long 
drew  herself  up  now  and  straightened  her  shoulders 


38      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

with  an  air  that  signified:  "If  I  had  been  there  this 
would  never  have  happened.  I've  always  said  that 
men  are  lacking  in  good  sense.'* 

The  whole  parish  fell  on  their  knees  when  the  priest 
descended  to  his  seat  and  in  the  silence  that  followed, 
while  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  he  resumed  his  vest- 
ments in  order  to  intone  the  Creed,  they  heard  several 
brief  sobs.  It  was  Connixloo,  weeping  in  his  choir- 
stall,  his  head  between  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  II 

Luke  Heemskerck  had  bought  the  little  house  of 
the  former  blacksmith  of  Meulebeke.  Behind  the 
forge  there  was  a  large  room,  paved  with  red  tiles, 
where  he  ate  and  slept  with  Gotton.  In  the  rear  of 
this  chamber  was  an  old  oaken  circular  stairway  which 
led  to  a  loft  where  the  hoard  of  old  iron  was  piled  up 
near  some  old  vegetables  under  ropes  for  drying 
clothes. 

Gotton  had  taken  possession  of  this  dwelling  with- 
out a  day  of  homelessness.  The  solitude  did  not  sur- 
prise her;  she  had  been  used  to  it  at  Metsys.  Her 
occupations  were  scarcely  changed:  washing,  mend- 
ing, cooking;  nothing  was  lacking  but  the  cows  to 
care  for  and  drive  to  the  meadow;  but  Luke  Heem- 
skerck had  promised  her  some  chickens  and  a  lamb 
which  she  was  going  to  feed  in  the  garden  and  which 
would  keep  her  company.  She  submitted  to  Luke  as 
from  her  childhood  she  had  always  submitted  to  her 
father;  but  the  happiness  of  this  loving  submission 
was  so  new,  so  unguessed  that  often,  in  the  midst  of 
her  household  work,  she  stopped  to  let  the  fullness  of 
her  heart  overflow  in  silence.  Thus,  her  inner  glad- 
ness was  the  only  thing  to  which  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed. 


40      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

During  the  first  days  she  had  feared  some  violence 
from  her  father,  or  simply  some  painful  and  embar- 
rassing occurrence  like  a  visit  from  the  priest,  an  at- 
tempt at  persuasion.  But  nothing  of  this  sort  hap- 
pened. Since  the  morning  when  she  had  left  her 
father's  house  she  was,  for  Metsys,  as  if  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world.  In  Meulebeke  she  went  out  seldom. 
Everybody  in  the  village  knew  her  story ;  they  pointed 
their  fingers  at  her  and  no  one  addressed  to  her  a 
word  of  good  will.  Nevertheless,  she  did  her  wash- 
ing at  the  fountain,  in  the  village  square,  and  although 
she  contrived  to  go  there  very  early,  she  always  met 
a  few  gossips.  They  nudged  each  other  with  their 
elbows  as  she  approached;  they  even  went  so  far  as 
to  insult  her:  "Hey,  girl,  you  have  brass  to  come 
and  wash  the  linen  of  your  bed  with  the  linen  of  hon- 
est folk." 

"Perhaps,"  she  would  reply  slowly,  "it  is  better  to 
be  happy  than  honest,  since  it  isn't  those  who  are 
happy  who  think  up  spiteful  things  to  say." 

She  made  her  reply  so  proudly  and  with  such  ani- 
mation that  she  closed  the  mouth  of  zeal.  She  saw 
that  these  women  who  abused  her  could  not  look  at 
her  without  envy.  She  knew  now  that  she  was  beauti- 
ful; the  love  which  she  inspired  was  before  the  eyes 
of  all  like  the  raiment  of  a  princess,  like  a  suit  of 
armor.  She  knew  that  she  walked  like  no  other 
woman,  with  an  ample,  rhythmic  movement  of  the 
hips,  light  and  strong,  and  that  Luke  was  intoxicated 
at  the  mere  sight  of  her  going  or  coming.     Away 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      41 

from  him  she  became  haughty ;  near  him  love,  humble, 
ardent,  voluptuous,  and  simple,  alone  dominated  her 
whole  being.  Too  carried  away  by  passion  to  be 
coquettish,  she  forgot  her  beauty  and  served  in  silence 
her  master  the  blacksmith. 

She  loved  to  see  him  at  the  forge,  upright,  his 
sleeves  rolled  back  to  his  shoulders,  beating  with  great 
blows  the  white  hot  iron  and  striking  showers  of 
sparks  from  the  anvil.  Often,  when  she  had  finished 
her  work  in  the  living-room  or  in  the  little  garden 
where  she  was  raising  some  vegetables,  she  would 
come,  her  knitting  in  her  hands,  and  seat  herself  near 
the  door,  at  the  back  of  the  forge,  and  watch  him. 
The  sound  of  his  breathing  between  the  blows  went 
through  her  like  a  flame.  Sometimes  customers  would 
enter  and  engage  Heemskerck  in  conversation;  but 
when  they  suddenly  observed  the  presence  of  Gotton 
in  the  dark  shadow  they  were  seized  with  uneasiness 
and  cut  the  interview  short.  This  beautiful  sinful 
girl,  with  her  intense  look,  for  them  vaguely  repre- 
sented Venus,  the  she-devil  whom  the  pagans  wor- 
shiped and  for  whom  so  many  men  had  lost  their 
souls. 

The  day  ended,  Luke  would  often  say  to  Gotton: 
"Would  you  like  to  take  a  stroll?'*  And  Gotton,  who 
scarcely  dared  to  go  out  alone  because  of  the  evil 
talk,  smiled  in  acknowledgment  and  went  to  change 
her  apron.  Then  they  would  set  out,  arm  in  arm, 
by  a  footpath  that  led  off  behind  their  garden  right 
across  the  fields  where,  as  far  as  one  could  see  on  that 


42      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

side,  there  was  nothing  but  the  plain,  green  or  motley, 
yellow  or  red  or  even  blue  according  to  the  hour  and 
the  season.  In  spring,  Luke  would  pass  branches  of 
hawthorn  through  the  knot  of  Cotton's  hair  to  see 
her  bright  face  laughing  at  him  out  of  a  whole  bush 
of  white  flowers.  In  a  low  voice  he  spoke  to  her  in 
words  of  passion  and  refreshed  against  her  neck  and 
cheeks  a  head  that  was  inflamed  by  the  fire  of  the 
forge.  Happy  and  docile,  she  lent  herself  to  the  vio- 
lence of  his  caresses.  She  was  like  a  flower,  always 
fresh,  unimpaired,  resplendent  under  the  insatiable 
tempest  of  love.  But  he  had  a  way  of  looking  at  her 
now  and  then,  savagely  and  almost  sadly,  that 
frightened  her.  She  had  remained  a  little  shy  with 
him  because  he  was  so  much  older  than  she  and  so 
strong,  so  active,  so  resolute!  Under  the  harshness 
of  her  father  she  had  always  felt  the  uneasiness  of 
a  timid  nature:  the  fear  of  hell,  the  fear  of  public 
gossip,  the  fear  of  women's  wiles  and  of  their  ardor 
were  the  true  sources  of  the  virtue  and  the  severities 
of  Connixloo.  But  this  Heemskerck,  with  his  in- 
spired eyes,  seemed  indeed  to  have  no  fear  of  any- 
thing. He  was  a  solitary  man,  accustomed  to  effort, 
to  difficulty,  who,  ten  hours  a  day,  often  half  naked 
and  streaming  with  sweat,  bent  the  iron  to  his  will. 
Leaning  on  his  arm  Cotton  felt  herself  protected. 

In  the  course  of  their  evening  walks,  he  had  told 
her  of  the  hard  life  which  he  had  led  and  which 
had  made  him  tenacious  and  strong-willed. 

"You  have  never  asked  me,  Cotton,  why  I  am  lame. 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      43 

I  was  not  born  this  way,  you  know,  and  it  is  not  my 
mother's  fault,  my  poor  Httle  girl,  if  your  man  goes 
hobbling  along.  My  father  had  a  forge  near  Bruges. 
As  for  me,  I  was  a  boy  who  was  growing  up  quite 
straight,  the  youngest  of  four  brothers.  When  I  was 
ten  years  old  I  had  a  quarrel  one  day  with  my  oldest 
brother.  He  was  strong  and  violent.  He  seized  the 
hammer  of  the  forge  and  flung  me  a  blow  across  the 
legs.  I  fell  down,  stiff,  senseless.  They  carried  me 
to  my  bed.  I  had  a  broken  thigh.  I  remained  three 
months  on  my  back.  They  did  not  call  in  a  doctor, 
no  one  cared  for  me;  they  brought  me  something  to 
eat  and  that  was  all.  My  eldest  brother  was  work- 
ing at  the  forge  and  already  earning  money,  and  my 
parents  didn't  want  to  make  him  angry.  The  first 
days  I  screamed  without  stopping.  Then  the  pain 
diminished.  I  waited  patiently  for  it  to  be  patched 
up;  at  night  I  would  try  the  ground  with  my  foot  to 
see  whether  it  had  got  back  its  strength,  whether  it 
would  support  me.  When  I  was  able  to  hold  myself 
up  on  my  legs,  I  found  that  one  of  them  was  shorter 
than  the  other,  with  a  great  hard  knot  like  a  stone 
on  the  side.  Then  I  clearly  understood  that  it 
wouldn't  do  for  me  to  stay  in  the  house  where  my 
brother  had  made  me  like  that.  I  wasn't  willing  to 
hobble  behind  the  others  who  would  always  have  out- 
stripped me  in  life.  I  left  one  night  without  a  sou, 
like  a  vagabond,  to  betake  myself  elsewhere,  I  did 
not  know  where,  to  earn  by  bread.  Not  once  did  I 
beg.     Before  evening  on  the  first  day.  I  had  the  luck 


44   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

to  hire  myself  out  at  a  farm  to  care  for  the  work- 
horses and  look  after  the  stable.  I  stayed  there  two 
years;  I  worked  for  my  board  and  I  never  saw  an 
ecu.  That  didn't  satisfy  me  and  I  always  cherished 
the  idea  of  setting  up  a  forge  like  my  father,  for  I 
loved  a  work  that  you  can  do  all  alone  and  in  which 
you  are  your  own  master. 

"Then,  too,  in  this  work  it*s  the  arms  that  count, 
and  I  thought  that  a  lame  fellow  would  be  no  more 
awkward  there  than  anyone  else.  Well,  from  time 
to  time  I  would  go  for  a  day,  or  for  two  days,  to 
look  in  one  village  and  another  for  a  place  as  black- 
smith's apprentice.  When  I  came  back,  they  always 
told  me  that  they  were  going  to  discharge  me,  that 
they  believed  I  had  gone  to  spend  the  night  with  the 
girls,  who  had  been  buying  me  drinks!  And  then 
they  would  keep  me  just  the  same,  because  I  worked 
well.  It  was  at  Malines  that  I  found  my  chance,  one 
day  when  my  master  had  sent  me  there  to  deliver  to 
a  horse-dealer  two  work-horses  that  he  was  going  to 
sell  to  him.  A  blacksmith  in  the  quarter  took  me  into 
his  shop,  and  when  I  had  reached  my  sixteenth  year 
he  got  me  a  place  with  the  blacksmith  of  Iseghem, 
who  was  old  and  was  no  longer  able  to  do  his  work 
alone.  Soon  he  left  the  whole  place  to  me.  I  earned 
money  there.  I  thought  I  had  come  to  the  end  of 
my  hardships.  And  then  I  got  married,  and,  the  devil ! 
I  saw  that  I  had  only  made  the  beginning  of  them." 

Gotton  listened,  recalling  her  own  childhood,  calm 
and  monotonous,  and  the  dreams  of  her  twelve  years 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      45 

in  the  church  at  Metsys.  And  she  thought  that  both 
of  them,  he  after  so  many  struggles  and  difficulties, 
she  after  so  many  dreams,  had  only  been  preparing 
themselves  for  these  days  of  love.  This  thought  made 
her  all  the  more  beautiful  every  hour.  In  the  garden, 
watering  a  little  rosebush  that  she  had  newly  planted, 
a  stalk  dry,  gray,  thorny,  which  Luke  had  brought  back 
to  her  from  Malines,  she  would  say  to  herself,  medi- 
tating on  her  own  destiny:  "It  does  not  know  that 
it  will  soon  bear  roses.    We  did  not  know,  either." 

::(c  He  3t:  3H  )K 

At  the  end  of  two  years,  Gotton  said  to  Luke: 
"God  has  not  blessed  us ;  we  have  no  children."  It 
was  in  these  words  that  she  expressed  for  the  first  time 
the  anxiety  which  for  several  months  had  troubled  her 
heart.  At  first  this  had  been  only  a  fleeting  thought, 
a  brief  pang  in  the  midst  of  her  happiness.  And  then 
she  said  to  herself:  "We  have  plenty  of  time!"  But 
time  brought  nothing,  and  Gotton  began  to  foresee 
that  perhaps  this  would  go  on  always  and  that  she 
might  grow  old  beside  Luke  without  hope.  Then 
she  felt  herself  walled  up  in  this  felicity  that  had  no 
horizon;  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  joy  had  closed  about 
her  like  a  tomb.  All  her  vigor,  all  her  tenderness 
longed  for  the  travail  of  motherhood,  for  the  bearing, 
nourishing,  rearing  of  children.  She  desired  them 
for  herself  with  the  deepest  instinct  of  her  nature  and 
she  desired  them  for  Luke  who  had,  because  of  her, 
abandoned  his  own.  There  were  hours  when  she  felt 
jealous  of  that  Gertrude  Moorslede  who  had  given 


46      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

them  to  him  and  whom  she  knew  that  she  had 
wronged.  If  she  had  borne  children  herself,  her  little 
ones  would  have  protected  her  from  remorse:  they 
would  have  had  such  need  of  Luke !  And  they  would 
have  protected  her  also,  she  thought,  from  public 
scorn.  With  children,  she  would  have  been  almost 
the  equal  of  other  women,  a  mother  rather  than  a 
mistress.  They  would  cease  to  point  their  fingers  at 
her;  they  would  perhaps  forget  the  scandal.  .  .  .  Even 
as  a  mistress  she  felt  troubled:  she  feared  lest  with 
Luke  the  ardor  of  pleasure  would  soon  spend  itself, 
that  he  would  be  seized  with  disgust  for  a  sterile  bed, 
and  her  own  life  seemed  to  her  as  dreary  as  a  year 
that  has  no  seasons. 

This  secret  sorrow  made  her  more  sensitive  to  the 
signs  of  hostility  which  she  received  every  day.  The 
people  of  Meulebeke  were  not  accustomed  to  scandal; 
they  had  not  made  their  peace  with  the  adulterous 
ones.  Not  one  family  had  opened  its  door  to  Gotton ; 
not  one  woman  had  entered  hers.  When  she  crossed 
the  threshold  of  a  shop  the  customers  hastened  to 
finish  their  purchases  and  did  not  conceal  their  annoy- 
ance. They  would  remark  as  they  w^ent  out:  "We 
are  not  used  here  to  meeting  fallen  girls,"  to  which 
the  shopkeeper  would  reply:  *They  say  it  takes 
every  kind  to  make  a  world;  that  does  not  keep  me 
from  preferring  to  serve  honest  folk."  One  day  when 
Gotton  laid  her  money  on  the  counter  of  the  baker's 
wife,  the  latter  said,  as  she  gathered  it  up:  "How 
about  the  little  Heemskercks ;  have  they  enough  money 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      47 

to  go  to  the  bakery  with?"  Shafts  like  this  sank  with 
a  quiver  into  her  soul. 

And  Cotton's  eyes  were  now  growing  hard,  and 
that  beautiful  balanced  walk  of  hers  had  taken  on 
almost  an  air  of  insolence.  All  her  dreams  concen- 
trated more  and  more  on  that  great  revenge :  the  pride 
of  being  a  mother.  A  little  child  cradled  between  her 
arms,  a  little  warm  tender  face  clinging  to  her  white, 
veined  breast,  that  was  the  vision  upon  which  she 
fed,  this  despised  girl,  as  she  walked  through  the  vil- 
lage where  not  one  face  smiled  at  her.  And  the  vision 
grew:  there  were  several  children,  three,  four,  hang- 
ing on  Cotton's  skirts,  but  there  was  always  one  quite 
new,  quite  tiny,  which  could  lie  from  his  head  to  his 
feet  between  the  two  elbows  that  rocked  him.  Oh, 
the  adorable  weakness  of  it!  Oh,  the  proud  abun- 
dance of  it!  In  the  pain  of  this  longing,  her  former 
thoughts,  almost  forgotten  since  the  first  joys  of  love, 
suddenly  revived  with  all  their  sting.  That  state  of 
sin,  which  she  had  feared  so  much  before  she  had 
committed  her  error,  again  disturbed  her  conscience 
and  her  peace  of  mind,  and  at  moments  she  asked  her- 
self in  terror  if  a  malediction  from  on  high  had  not 
dried  up  her  entrails. 

Months  passed  during  which  she  did  not  dare  to 
mention  her  anguish  to  the  blacksmith.  But  some- 
times, coming  back  from  his  errands,  he  would  find 
her  sitting  with  her  head  in  her  hands  and  weeping. 
So  long  as  he  was  working  at  the  forge,  the  feeling 
of  his  presence  drove  back  her  grief ;  she  would  go  to 


48      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

watch  him,  as  in  the  first  days,  smiting  the  anvil,  and 
so  regarding  him  in  silence  she  felt  her  heart  satis- 
fied. But  the  days  when  Luke  made  his  journeys 
among  the  neighboring  villages,  or  sometimes  in  the 
city,  her  spirit  went  roaming  in  a  solitude  where 
there  was  nothing  to  shield  her  any  longer  from  her 
melancholy.  The  miscarriage  of  her  womanhood  re- 
opened the  gate  of  recollection  and  many  things  she 
might  have  believed  forgotten  came  back  to  her 
memory,  haloed  with  sorrow.  She  recalled  the  peace- 
ful days  she  had  passed  in  the  fields  when,  among  the 
scabiouses  and  the  daisies,  she  had  been  herself  flower- 
like in  the  tranquillity  of  her  blood.  She  had  been 
afraid  of  her  father,  her  life  with  him  had  been  tedi- 
ous, she  had  been  beaten  sometimes — ^yes,  that  was 
true;  but  nevertheless,  all  that  life  before  her  love 
seemed  to  her  from  afar  like  something  fresh  and 
serene,  with  a  secret  radiance!  She  would  not  have 
changed  things,  she  would  not  have  gone  back  to  that 
past  time;  but  she  said  to  herself  all  the  same  that 
she  had  not  realized  how  good  it  was.  She  remem- 
bered again  the  chimes  which  every  quarter  of  an 
hour  blossomed  on  the  air  like  a  little  flower  of  music 
with  six  petals,  and  how  all  the  flowers  formed  a 
bright  garland  suspended  between  dawn  and  even- 
tide. And  then  those  lovely  chimes  of  Sunday,  so 
deep  at  first,  then  gradually  louder,  sharper,  more  im- 
portunate, more  buoyant,  as  if  to  hasten  the  steps  of 
the  parish  folk  who  from  all  the  farms  came  to  the 
church.    She  happened  to  hear  them  again  one  Sun- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      49 

day  morning  when  the  wind  blew  strong  and  came 
from  Metsys.  Then  she  distinguished  the  voice  of 
the  great  bell  which  rang  first  and  seemed  to  say: 
"Leave  your  cattle-sheds ;  remove  from  your  feet  the 
sabots  encrusted  with  mud  and  dung!"  and  after  it 
the  other  bells  whose  voices  reached  her  in  swift 
ethereal  confusion,  those  silver  bells  which  spoke  of  a 
joyous  ascension  from  this  heavy  world  toward  the 
regions  where  the  souls  of  men  sing  with  the  angels. 
Gotton  listened  and  dreamed,  but  she  did  not  change 
her  everyday  petticoat,  nor  her  sabots;  she  was  not 
going  to  church.  She  would  not  have  believed  that 
she  could  have  come  to  miss  it  so  much.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  church  of  Metsys;  she  longed  to  see 
her  cure  again,  his  hands  piously  raised,  chanting  the 
Preface.  She  recalled  with  this  image  the  confused 
impression  given  her  by  those  incomprehensible  Latin 
words,  resounding  so  richly  in  the  choir  of  carved 
wood — the  antique  melody,  at  once  strange  and 
familiar,  that  seemed  to  animate  with  a  magic  life  the 
personages  that  swarmed  on  the  altar-screen,  the  fig- 
ures on  the  capitals.  Again  she  saw  the  stained-glass 
windows,  those  quivering  enigmas  that  had  sparkled 
over  her  childhood  and  awakened  her  first  dreams, 
those  jewels,  those  inextinguishable  embers — what 
sorcery !  How  she  had  longed  to  share  in  their  ardor ! 
And  when  she  had  known  the  passionate  glance  of 
Luke,  she  had  believed  that  she  had  found  a  hearth 
where  the  same  fire  burned — a  hearth  quite  near,  quite 
human,  in  which  her  soul  might  kindle  itself,  might 


50   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

also  become  radiant  and  fiery!  ...  In  the  first  days 
of  their  love,  it  had  been  her  innermost  joy  to  feel 
that  her  passion  was  watching  over  her,  in  the  midst 
of  the  solitude,  the  monotonous  labor,  the  misty  days, 
and  even  in  the  very  depths  of  sleep.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  indeed  her  soul  had  become  incandescent,  and 
that  there  was  as  great  a  difference  between  a  corpse 
and  one  who  has  risen  from  the  dead  as  between  the 
young  girl  she  had  been  and  the  creature  of  love 
that  she  had  become.  But  now  she  realized  that  love 
has  not  the  fixedness  of  gems  and  that  if  it  cannot 
grow  and  feed  itself  like  flame  it  is  smothered  drearily 
among  the  cinders. 

Several  months  had  slipped  by  since  Gotton  had 
confessed  to  the  blacksmith  the  grief  which  made  her 
heart  heavy.  They  did  not  speak  of  it  between  them- 
selves; but  Luke  saw  that  Gotton  was  often  absorbed, 
that  her  mouth  had  assumed  a  dejected  curve  and 
that  the  radiance  of  youth  had  begun  to  fade  in  her 
face.  He  did  not  love  her  less  ardently,  but  the  feel- 
ing that  she  was  unsatisfied  plunged  him  into  fits  of 
gloomy  melancholy  which  she  observed  in  her  turn 
and  attributed  to  a  regret  like  her  own.  Her  anxiety 
and  distress  increased  all  the  more. 

Winter  had  come  and  they  were  approaching  the 
festival  of  Christmas.  One  evening  Luke,  sitting 
down  to  the  table  for  dinner,  said  to  Gotton:  "What 
do  you  say  to  our  going  to  Malines  together  for 
Christmas  Eve?     I  hear  there's  to  be  a  great  bell- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      51 

ringing  festival  there  and  that  all  the  bells  in  the  city- 
are  going  to  sound  together."  Gotton  thought  a  mo- 
ment before  answering.  Malines?  She  had  never 
been  there.  She  imagined  a  great  crowd  in  which  she 
would  be  hurried  along,  people  who  would  speak  to 
her  without  knowing  her  story,  churches  where  she 
would  dare  to  enter  and  kneel  down  among  the  Chris- 
tian folk.  With  gratitude  she  told  Luke  that  she 
would  love  to  go  to  the  celebration.  For  three  days 
she  dreamed  of  it,  tasting  in  advance  those  hours 
when,  lost  in  the  strange  throng,  she  would  cast  off 
the  weight  of  public  scorn.  When  the  moment  came, 
they  set  out  together  and  reached  on  foot  the  nearest 
railway  station.  A  thick  mist  warmly  enveloped  the 
earth.  Gotton,  her  forehead  resting  on  the  glass  of 
their  third-class  compartment,  watched  the  wet  fields 
flying  past,  veiled  in  cottony  whiteness,  amid  which 
the  poplars  seemed  lil^e  rushing  ghosts.  At  the  end 
of  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  she  stepped  down 
with  Luke  at  the  Malines  station.  The  fog  was  even 
denser  in  the  town  than  over  the  fields.  They  were 
lighting  the  street-lamps.  Gotton  was  astonished  at 
all  these  spheres  of  milky  light  strung  along  the  side- 
walks like  pearls  on  a  necklace.  It  seemed  to  her 
marvelously  beautiful.  Luke  led  her  off  at  random 
through  the  streets,  where  most  of  the  shops,  even 
when  they  were  closed,  were  brilliantly  illuminated 
behind  their  show-windows. 

At  a  little  cross-street,  they  stopped  before  an  inn  of 
modest  appearance,  the  sign  of  which  bore  a  basket 


52      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

of  vegetables  and  beneath  the  inscription  in  French 
and  Flemish,  ''The  Garden  of  Rubens."  They  entered 
and  engaged  a  room  for  the  night  and  two  places  for 
the  Christmas  Eve  revel.  Then  they  resumed  their 
aimless  stroll,  crossing  unknown  streets  where  the 
passers-by  rose  up  and  vanished  like  phantoms  in  the 
mist.  They  jostled  against  townsfolk  of  Malines, 
peasants  from  the  heart  of  Flanders,  and  rich  for- 
eigners, spectacled  Germans  and  smooth-faced  Ameri- 
cans accompanied  by  slender  young  women  whose 
bold  and  agile  beauty  was  set  off  by  jewelry.  Gotton 
stopped  a  moment  in  an  eddy  of  the  crowd,  among 
these  foreign  folk,  looking  at  them  with  infinite  ad- 
miration. Suddenly  she  blushed  with  astonishment 
and  pleasure  as  she  perceived  that  these  splendid  crea- 
tures were  also  staring  in  admiration  at  hen  With 
a  quick  intuition  she  divined  what  they  were  saying 
about  her,  although  she  was  unable  to  understand  the 
words  they  exchanged  as  they  passed:  "Beautiful 
Flemish  girl !"  "Ach  mein  lieb' !  Sieh'st  du  was  f iir 
ein  schoner  Rubens !" 

The  novelty  of  the  situation  gave  her  a  sort  of  in- 
toxication. For  a  long  time,  Luke  had  not  seemed 
so  gay.  His  shining  eyes,  in  the  powdery  dampness 
of  the  fog,  wandered  over  things  with  a  look  of  en- 
thusiasm, his  step  was  quick.  From  time  to  time,  she 
half  turned  about  and  leaned  on  Luke's  arm  with  a 
movement  full  of  tenderness  and  joy. 

Toward  seven  o'clock  they  dined  and  Luke  made 
her  drink  some  wine. 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      55 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  bells  began  to  ring.  At  first 
came  clear,  equal  notes  that  soared  aloft  from  second 
to  second,  as  if  to  feel  the  upper  air  before  the  full 
chorus  of  the  chimes  flung  itself  forth.  At  the  first 
sounds,  silence  fell  on  the  throng  and  all  heads  were 
lifted  as  if  they  were  about  to  see  passing  through  the 
mist  the  wings  of  angels. 

Then,  one  after  another,  the  venerable  bells  of  the 
city  bestirred  themselves,  joining  their  voices  with  the 
voice  that  had  sprung  forth  first,  and  all  the  sky  was 
soon  quickened  with  a  vast  vibration.  The  whole  city 
sang;  it  filled  space  with  the  solemn  joy  of  its  heart. 
The  ethereal  waves  glided  one  over  another  like  the 
billows  of  a  stream,  flowing  and  rustling.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  floodgates  of  some  mystic  river  had  been 
opened,  a  river  of  gladness  and  benediction  for  the 
vast  multitude  that  dipped  themselves  in  its  pure  ebul- 
lition. From  every  belfry  in  turn  soared  a  strain 
that  carried  over  the  eddies  of  sound  a  melody  which 
brought  the  ancient  words  of  some  Christmas  carol 
surging  to  Flemish  lips. 

Gotton  listened;  the  vibrations  of  the  bells  pierced 
her,  dominated  her  whole  soul.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
something  was  in  flight  about  her,  poised  in  mid- 
heaven  upon  the  wings  of  sound,  far  beyond  her 
sorrows  and  her  everyday  joys.  The  modest  art  of 
the  bell-ringer  of  Metsys  had  prepared  her  to  under- 
stand the  masters  of  Malines.  At  moments,  she 
thought  this  evening  of  her  father  and  of  that  bell- 
ringer's  room  in  the  steeple  at  Metsys  whither,  as  a 


54      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

little  girl,  she  had  often  climbed  with  him  to  watch 
him  pull  the  ropes,  following  a  long  and  supple 
rhythm.  She  felt  for  him  a  stir  of  affection  and 
imagined  how  happy  he  would  be  to  pass  a  night  like 
this  in  Malines.  But  it  would  not  have  been  possible 
for  him  to  come;  he  would  have  to  sound  the  mid- 
night mass  in  the  village.  .  .  .  Unweariedly,  Gotton 
led  Luke  through  the  opalescent  fog,  peopled  with 
shadows  and  vibrant  with  music,  to  stop  at  the  foot 
of  every  singing  tower  and  enter  every  church.  In 
the  churches  the  crowds  were  assembling  to  hear  the 
midnight  mass ;  the  candelabra  were  lighted ;  the  vast 
buoyant  harmonies  of  an  organ,  caressed  by  dreaming 
fingers,  mingled  themselves  at  times  with  the  song  of 
the  bells.  Gotton  had  never  seen  so  many  people 
gathered  together;  nor  had  she  ever  before  experi- 
enced that  fervent  exaltation  of  the  great  Catholic 
festivals  when  one  perceives  in  the  sanctuaries  the 
shining  of  eager  souls.  However,  she  did  not  stop  in 
the  crowd  herself,  nor  did  she  attempt  to  pray.  When 
she  had  watched  for  a  moment,  in  some  nave,  the 
kneeling  worshipers,  their  pious  faces  turned  toward 
the  altar,  then  the  images,  the  lights,  the  still  empty 
trough  between  Joseph  and  Mary,  the  shepherds  and 
the  little  sheep,  waiting  until,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
an  infant  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes  would  be 
placed  there,  she  felt  impelled  to  set  out  again  in  the 
white  fog  till  she  had  found  another  church.  The 
solemn  hour  was  approaching  when  the  priests  would 
begin  the  celebration  of  the  nocturnal  mass  when,  in 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      55 

one  of  the  low  aisles  of  a  dark,  narrow  church  which 
she  had  just  entered  with  Luke,  she  stopped  before  a 
stand  of  tapers  which  were  burning  and  dripping  their 
wax,  at  the  feet  of  an  image  of  Our  Lady.  She  looked 
at  the  Virgin  Mary,  delicate,  smiling,  under  her  lofty 
diadem,  supporting  against  her  frail  and  gently  bend- 
ing waist  the  knees  of  the  Child  whom  she  bore  on 
her  arm.  Suddenly,  Cotton  turned  pale  under  the 
sway  of  an  intense  emotion  and  her  eyes  grew  big. 
In  the  first  row  of  the  worshipers,  his  full  face 
lighted  up  by  the  long  flames  of  the  narrow  candles 
that  were  consuming  themselves  all  too  quickly,  she 
recognized  her  father.  Her  astonishment  left  no 
room  for  doubt:  it  was  he,  with  his  straight  black 
hair,  the  four  or  five  deep  wrinkles  that  repeated  pre- 
cisely on  his  forehead  the  double  arc  of  his  eyes,  his 
knotted  temples,  his  brown  eyes,  too  close  together. 
But  the  face  had  aged ;  the  narrow  nostrils  had  taken 
on  a  look  of  old  parchment,  the  furrows  of  the  cheeks 
had  grown  hollower.  Connixloo  had  fixed  his  glance 
fervently  on  the  statue  of  the  Virgin,  and  his  lips 
were  rapidly  murmuring  his  prayers.  In  his  upraised 
eyes  Cotton  saw  the  play  of  the  reflected  candles,  but 
all  at  once  the  reflection  was  confused,  the  mirror  of 
the  eyes  became  entirely  bright  and  two  tears  flowed 
over  the  yellow,  wrinkled  eyelids.  The  old  chorister 
was  weeping  as  he  prayed  to  the  Mother  of  all  purity. 
Cotton  turned;  she  looked  about  for  Luke:  he  was 
absorbed  in  contemplation  before  a  picture  in  a  neigh- 
boring chapel  and  had  seen  nothing.     "Let  us  go," 


56      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

she  said.  He  was  astonished  at  her  brusqueness  and 
followed  her  anxiously.  For  her  the  charm  was 
broken,  the  rapture  spent;  in  an  instant  she  had  lost 
the  illusion  of  being  merged  in  the  Christian  multi- 
tude. 

"I  want  to  go  back  to  the  inn,"  she  said  to  Luke, 
as  soon  as  they  were  outside.  "You  can  hear,  the 
chimes  have  ceased;  I  am  too  tired  to  sit  up  any 
longer." 

"What?"  said  Luke.  "Don*t  you  want  to  wait  for 
the  midnight  mass?" 

"Oh,  no !"  she  answered.  "My  head's  turning  with 
all  the  things  I've  seen !" 

They  found  the  inn  where  the  table  was  being  pre- 
pared for  the  Christmas  Eve  revel.  But  they  had  no 
desire  for  supper  now.  They  went  to  bed.  When 
Luke  was  asleep  beside  her,  Cotton  no  longer  re- 
strained her  tears.  A  long  time  she  wept,  while 
below,  around  the  roast  goose,  the  laughter  resounded. 
She  could  not  distract  her  thoughts  from  that  sorrow- 
ful face  which  had  appeared  to  her  out  of  the  light 
of  the  candles,  nor  from  that  ardent  prayer  of  which 
she  did  not  doubt  that  she  was  the  object.  For  the 
first  time  since  she  had  lived  with  Luke,  she  felt 
not  only  frustrated,  not  only  despised,  but  guilty. 

Gotton  resumed  her  life  at  the  forq^e  in  Meulebeke 
without  having  told  Luke  of  the  encounter  that  had 
troubled  her.  She  no  longer  spoke  to  him  of  the 
frief  she  felt  at  having  no  children.  She  loved  him; 
the  clung  to  the  idea  of  not  making  him  suffer  and 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      57 

also  of  putting  off  the  hour  when  there  would  be  born 
in  him  the  regrets  that  seemed  to  her  almost  in- 
evitable. Love,  devotion,  obedience  filled  from  hour 
to  hour  a  Hfe  of  which  she  did  not  wish  to  interro- 
gate the  horizon.  Nevertheless,  when  she  was  left 
alone,  a  wave  of  sorrow  sometimes  overflowed  her 
heart. 

One  afternoon  at  the  end  of  April  when  Luke,  re- 
turning to  the  forge,  had  found  her  thus  lost  in  her 
dreams  and  all  in  tears,  he  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice, 
as  he  kissed  her  hair:  *'Come,  look,  it  is  as  beautiful 
as  the  time  when  you  came  to  me;  come  and  let  us 
take  a  little  stroll  toward  the  woods."  She  let  him 
lead  her.  They  went  up  the  little  road  that  passed  be- 
hind their  garden,  to  avoid  crossing  the  village;  but 
soon  they  rejoined  the  highway.  Luke,  urged  on  by 
the  memories  which  the  blue  spring  day  evoked,  had 
taken  the  direction  of  the  little  wood  adjoining  Metsys 
to  which,  in  the  three  years  they  had  lived  together, 
they  had  never  once  returned.  Gotton  seemed  not 
to  be  noticing  it,  and  she  was  silent.  Together  they 
watched  their  united  shadows  lengthening  along  the 
road,  for  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  them,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  lame  man  jerked  fantastically  at  every 
step  beside  the  harmonious  shadow  of  Gotton.  The 
oblique  rays  illuminated  the  whole  green  density  of 
the  meadows,  dappled  with  daisies  and  buttercups. 
The  orchards  in  flower  poured  out  upon  the  air  a 
tender,  delicate  perfume,  and  in  places  the  white 
petals  were  flying  on  the  breeze.    The  transfiguration 


58      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

of  this  world,  so  dull,  so  ugly  only  a  few  weeks  before 
— which  was,  indeed,  in  the  ignorance  of  poor  Cot- 
ton, the  whole  world — represented  to  her  eyes  the  de- 
lights and  the  mysterious  bliss  of  fecundity  from 
which  she  was  excluded.  Nevertheless,  the  warm 
pallor  of  the  sky  and  the  perfumes  that  drifted  over 
the  landscape  pervaded  even  the  inmost  recesses  of 
her  grief  with  a  peaceful  and  voluptuous  influence. 
Luke  now  spoke  to  her  of  his  work,  of  the  next 
orders  he  had  to  deliver,  of  his  clientele,  which  was 
spreading  through  the  neighborhood,  and  she  replied 
calmly  and  soberly,  like  a  wife  attentive  to  the  pros- 
perity of  the  household.  This  conversation,  in  which 
the  man  distracted  himself  from  his  restless,  amor- 
ous passion  and  the  girl  from  her  secret  grief,  gave 
them  a  sweet  deep  feeling  of  all  their  lives  had  in 
common.  They  found  repose  together  in  this  humble 
aspect  of  their  love.  And  now  the  little  wood  which 
Luke  had  wished  to  see  again  revealed  itself  over  a 
rise  on  the  plain,  and  further  off — so  slender,  so  light 
in  the  blue  of  the  evening! — the  belfry  of  Metsys. 
Then  Luke  stretched  his  arm  about  Cotton's  waist 
and  with  one  movement  they  hastened  forward.  They 
reached  the  exact  spot  they  were  seeking  as  the  sun 
touched  the  horizon.  The  undergrowth  was  only  a 
green  confusion;  but  at  the  summits  of  the  oaks, 
which  were  still  perforated  with  the  azure  sky,  the 
little  golden  leaves  were  like  the  flames  of  candles. 
The  lovers  had  stopped,  when  they  saw  coming  out 
of  the  wood  a  band  of  five  children  who  were  chas- 


THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO      59 

ing  one  another,  shouting,  to  the  road.  The  smallest, 
fair-haired  and  all  disheveled,  who  was  being  left 
behind,  though  he  was  running  desperately,  bore  in 
his  arms  a  great  bouquet  of  violet-colored  orchids. 

The  blacksmith  trembled  at  the  sound  of  these 
young  voices.  The  largest  boy,  who  was  leading  the 
band,  arriving  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  stopped  short 
in  an  attitude  of  intense  astonishment.  Then,  quite 
low,  Luke  said  to  Gotton:  "Do  you  recognize  them?'* 
And  as  he  gazed  he  counted  his  children.  They  were 
indeed  there,  all  of  them:  Jean-Baptiste,  Catherine, 
Jean,  Bernard  and  little  Louis.  They  were  beauti- 
ful; they  had  sparkling  eyes,  the  blood  was  in  their 
cheeks,  their  breath  was  coming  short  like  that  of 
young  dogs  after  a  chase.  Having  descended  the 
slope,  they  had  stopped,  all  five,  at  the  white  border 
of  the  road,  and  it  seemed  that  even  the  smallest  ones 
understood. 

Luke  was  seized  with  a  great  desire  to  talk  with 
his  children.  In  a  tone  of  unusual  sweetness  he 
called  the  eldest:  "You  there,  Jean-Baptiste?"  The 
child  did  not  answer;  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  with 
a  savage  hostility  upon  the  couple  standing  a  few 
yards  away  from  him.  Suddenly  he  leaned  over, 
picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  Gotton.  At  once 
the  five  children,  without  uttering  a  sound,  scampered 
off  down  the  road  like  black  hobgoblins  against  the 
red  flare  of  the  horizon. 

Luke  was  springing  after  them,  but  Gotton  fell  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  dull  cry,  and  her  weight  was  so 


60      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

Inert  that  he  thought  she  had  been  injured.  Then, 
even  as  he  supported  her,  he  stooped  as  his  son  had 
done;  but  she  threw  both  her  arms  about  him  and 
cried:  "You're  not  going  to  throw  stones  at  them, 
at  your  own  children !" 

Luke  carried  her  and  laid  her  down  in  the  meadow 
to  which  he  had  come  to  breathe  the  memory  of  their 
first  kisses. 

"Where  are  you  hurt?"  he  asked.  "Where  did 
he  hit  you?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  the  grass  and  her  whole  body 
was  agitated  with  long  shudders  and  sobs.  And  as 
he  repeated,  "Where  are  you  hurt?"  she  shook  her 
head  without  being  able  to  answer.  He  tried  to  caress 
her,  but  she  repulsed  him.  He  understood  that  it  was 
from  a  lonely  and  long-hidden  source  that  this  flood 
of  sorrow  had  overflowed ;  he  felt  himself  in  his  turn 
alone  and  enfeebled.  The  sobs  of  the  woman  whom 
he  loved  and  whose  whole  being  he  had  believed 
united  and  merged  with  his,  reached  him  as  from  the 
other  edge  of  an  abyss.  Once  more  he  leaned  over 
her  and  at  last  heard  the  words  flung  up  from  the 
depths  of  her  heart: 

"Oh,  Luke,  you  had  them,  those  children ;  you  left 
them  for  me,  and  I  have  not  given  you  any  others!" 

He  surrounded  her  with  his  arms,  Hfted  up  her 
head,  covered  it  with  passionate  kisses. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  to  her.  "I  care  for  nothing 
but  you.    Don't  speak  to  me  of  those  vermin!    Never 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      61 

speak  to  me  again  of  that  accursed  child  that  struck 
you!" 

She  repHed  with  vehemence: 

*lt  is  we  that  are  accursed!'* 

And  a  new  silence  fell  upon  them.  Then  Luke  mur- 
mured in  a  choking  voice: 

"Gotton,  you  have  never  said  that  to  me.  Are 
you  no  longer  happy  with  me?" 

Gotton  placed  her  head  upon  Luke's  breast  as  upon 
a  sure  refuge.  The  light  wind  of  evening  passed 
over  her  cheek,  but  under  her  head  she  felt  the  black- 
smith's heart  beating  with  great  throbs.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  everything  in  the  world  was  indifferent  or 
strange  except  that  throbbing  and  that  anvil  of  flesh 
upon  which  she  had  forged  her  own  destiny.  With- 
out lifting  her  face  or  her  closed  eyelids,  now  all 
stilled  in  love,  she  said: 

"Luke,  I  have  a  sorrow  that  you  cannot  heal.  But 
I  shall  always  belong  to  you." 


CHAPTER  III 

For  three  weeks  the  scourge  of  the  invasion  had 
pursued  its  horrible  course,  marked  with  blood  and 
ruin,  across  the  fields  of  Belgium.  And  the  tocsin 
was  sounding  at  Metsys,  at  Meulebeke,  at  Iseghem, 
for  they  knew  the  enemy  was  near  and  that  that  even- 
ing, probably,  he  would  enter  the  canton.  A  few 
families  had  left.  After  the  departure  of  the  young 
men,  called  to  the  army  at  the  beginning  of  August, 
they  had  seen,  moving  off,  day  after  day,  the  sad  cart- 
loads of  women  and  children,  in  their  Sunday  clothes, 
sitting  among  their  heaped-up  belongings,  while  the 
men  walked  behind  and  the  eldest  son  led  by  the 
bridle  the  plow-horse,  which  was  going  to  drag  all 
the  way  to  Antwerp,  along  the  interminable  dusty 
road,  the  poor  remains  of  their  abandoned  homes. 
But  as  it  was  the  time  to  get  in  the  harvest,  the 
greater  number  remained. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  us  go?"  Luke  had  said  to 
Cotton.  And  Cotton  had  shaken  her  head.  She 
said  to  herself:  *lt  has  taken  all  his  savings  to  buy 
this  forge  so  that  we  might  live  together.  For  three 
years,  he  has  been  able  to  save  scarcely  anything  more. 
Elsewhere  we  should  soon  have  to  beg."    And  besides, 

62 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   63 

in  the  past  year  she  had  grown  sensitive  and  timid ;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  would  be  ashamed  if  she  went 
off  all  alone  with  her  lover  among  these  crowds  of 
people  who  were  fleeing  to  find  shelter  for  their  little 
children.  "What  have  we  got  to  save?"  she  thought. 
But  she  was  troubled  about  the  little  Heemskercks. 
She  said  to  Luke,  "You  must  go  to  them."  It  was  a 
day  when  Luke  had  come  in  bringing  bad  news:  the 
enemy  had  burned  Louvain,  Termonde,  massacring 
by  hundreds  peasants  and  townsfolk  on  the  thresh- 
olds of  their  houses.  Aid  from  England  had  not  yet 
arrived.  The  Belgian  army,  outflanked,  had  retired 
upon  Antwerp  and  it  was  certain  now  that  the  coun- 
try was  abandoned,  given  over  to  the  enemy — the 
Bavarians  were  coming.  They  were  standing  in  their 
room;  they  looked  at  one  another  with  white  faces, 
and  the  specter  of  remorse  rose  up  between  them. 

"You  must  go  to  them,"  repeated  Gotton,  and  her 
contracted  mouth  could  hardly  pronounce  the  words. 
Luke  bit  his  lips  and  pulled  at  his  red  beard. 

"You  don't  know  how  proud  the  Moorsledes  are," 
he  replied.  "Neither  Gertrude  nor  her  parents  would 
so  much  as  speak  to  me.  They  would  throw  me  out 
like  a  dog — I  couldn't  even  see  the  children." 

"Go  there,  all  the  same.  We  must  know  if  they're 
staying." 

"I  do  know  they  are  staying." 

"Ah !"  Another  pain  shot  through  the  heart  of  the 
poor  girl:  he  had  inquired  all  by  himself,  without  tell- 
ing her. 


64      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

"But  they  might  perhaps  be  going  to-day,  how  can 
you  tell?" 

'^No." 

''Luke,  goto  chem!*' 

Luke  had  turned  his  back  and  entered  the  smithy. 
He  had  work  to  deliver  the  next  day.  Gotton  listened 
to  the  blows  falling  on  the  anvil.  She  had  a  feeling 
of  dizziness.  With  her  hands  hanging,  incapable  of 
doing  anything,  she  looked  about  her  at  the  room 
where  they  had  loved  each  other  and  which  was  all 
decked  with  the  presents  Luke  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  picking  up  and  bringing  back  to  her  from  his  jour- 
neys; the  Adrinople  curtains  for  the  window,  a  brass 
lamp,  some  faience  plates  painted  with  birds  and 
leaves,  pewter  pots — then  below,  hanging  behind  a 
curtain,  the  dresses  of  all  colors,  the  striped  petticoats, 
the  flowered  fichus;  at  one  side,  the  chest  where  the 
beautiful  white  linen  was  folded  away  and  which  con- 
tained also  a  little  box  full  of  gold  trinkets.  Gotton 
looked  at  all  these  things  that  Luke  had  given  her 
during  these  three  years.  He  had  treated  her  like 
a  mistress  whom  one  flatters  and  spoils  rather  than 
like  a  true  wife  with  whom  one  delights  in  sharing 
economies.  Often  she  had  been  touched  by  this; 
to-day  the  thought  added  to  her  trouble  and  the 
horror  she  felt  for  herself.  She  gazed  again  at  the 
mirror  hanging  on  the  wall,  in  the  depths  of  which, 
when  she  was  combing  her  hair  in  the  evening  under 
the  lamp  and  the  golden  cascades  streamed  over  her 
naked  body,  she  had  often  seen  appear  the  enchanted 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      65 

face  of  Luke.  She  saw  herself  in  the  mirror,  white 
to  the  lips.  Everything  that  Luke  had  given  her,  all 
these  things  impregnated  with  memory  and  with  love, 
suddenly  seemed  to  her  far  away  as  if  she  was  regard- 
ing them  from  the  other  side  of  death;  her  own  face 
looked  at  her  like  a  ghost.  She  felt  herself  immensely 
alone.  Happiness  had  vanished  like  dew,  and  how 
faint  it  seemed  to  her  now,  how  pale,  how  fugitive  in 
the  face  of  this  terrible  and  persistent  reality  of  sin, 
of  this  shame  of  a  father  who  could  no  longer  protect 
his  own  children !  The  blows  of  the  hammer  that  re- 
sounded regularly  in  the  forge  crushed  her  heart.  "He 
will  not  go!"  she  told  herself.  And  all  the  living 
warmth  of  the  kisses  with  which  he  had  covered  her 
so  many  nights  was  dissipated  under  the  breath  of 
the  condemnation  which  she  felt  passing  over  her  life. 
A  voice  cried  from  within:  "For  the  idolatry  of 
my  body,  he  has  left  for  three  years  the  wife  whom 
he  took  before  God  and  the  little  ones  who  have  need 
of  him !"  She  felt  bare  and  fainting  under  the  lashes 
of  remorse. 

Close  by,  Luke  kept  striking  the  anvil,  and  the 
blows  heavily  shook  the  air  where  no  other  sound 
passed.  In  her  dizziness,  it  seemed  to  Gotton  that 
Luke's  arm  was  riveting  about  her  the  chain  of  her 
sin. 

Luke  did  not  go  to  Iseghem  that  day,  nor  the  next. 
Only  on  the  third  day,  the  day  when  all  the  bells  of 
the  canton  were  sounding  the  tocsin  at  once,  urged  on 
by  his  own  uneasiness  more  than  by  Cotton's  prayers, 


6Q      THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO 

did  he  set  out  on  the  road  to  go  and  find  out  what 
had  happened  to  his  children.  He  would  offer  to  take 
back  one  or  two  with  him,  during  the  time  of  crisis, 
if  that  would  ease  matters.  The  essential  thing  was 
for  them  to  be  kept  shut  up.  Frightful  tales  were 
circulating  from  village  to  village  about  little  children 
whose  hands  the  German  soldiers  had  cut  off. 

When  Luke  returned  to  Meulebeke,  alone,  toward 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  village  seemed  deserted. 
The  inhabitants  had  shut  themselves  in  behind  their 
closed  doors;  the  animals  had  been  driven  into  the 
stables  or  the  back-yards.  Over  the  silent  houses 
vibrated,  at  slow  intervals,  the  voice  of  the  desolate 
bells.  Gotton  was  standing  quite  alone,  near  the 
fountain,  behind  the  church,  pale  as  a  phantom.  When 
she  saw  Luke,  she  took  several  steps  toward  him,  her 
mouth,  half-open,  her  eyes  bewildered. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

She  pointed  to  the  belfry  where  the  tocsin  was  in- 
cessantly sounding. 

"You  passed  in  sight  of  Metsys,"  she  said  slowly, 
and  as  if  in  a  dream.  "Is  it  sounding  there  too  ?  Did 
you  hear  it?" 

"Yes,  there  too." 

"Ahr 

She  saw  her  father  again,  in  the  bell-ringer's  room, 
pulling  the  ropes. 

"And  at  Iseghem?  What  have  they  done  about 
the  children?  You  haven't  brought  any  of  them 
back?" 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      67 

They  had  arrived  before  the  forge.  Luke  pushed 
her  with  a  rough  gesture  into  the  interior.  Then  he 
adjusted  the  door,  gave  the  lock  a  double  turn  and 
fixed  the  iron  bar.    Turning  about,  he  at  last  said: 

*Tt  happened  just  as  I  said  it  vi^ould.  They  were 
all  together  in  the  kitchen,  the  Moorsledes  and  all 
their  girls,  with  Gertrude,  sitting  doing  nothing  about 
the  table.  The  children  weren't  there.  I  heard  them 
making  a  noise  in  the  garret.  Old  Moorslede  spat  on 
the  ground  when  he  saw  me.  I  spoke  up  all  the  same. 
I  said,  Torgive  me,  even  if  I  have  wronged  you; 
IVe  come  to  speak  about  the  children.'  They  sent 
me  off  with  insults.  Gertrude  cried  out  more  loudly 
than  the  others,  Took  at  him  there,  the  scoundrel! 
Does  he  except  to  carry  them  off  to  that  hussy  of 
his?'  Come,  don't  cry,  Gotton,  you  are  my  wife  and 
my  child.  See,  the  bar  is  down.  Have  you  bread 
enough  for  a  few  days?  I  can't  let  you  set  foot  in 
the  street  any  more.  If  we  have  to  take  men  in,  I'll 
hide  you  in  the  garret.  You've  seen  the  bar  and  the 
ring  that  I've  forged  to  put  up  there.  The  Bavarians 
can't  get  them  open.  I'll  guard  you  well,  my  lamb, 
my  treasure;  have  no  fear." 

Gotton  had  no  fear  of  the  Bavarians  and  Luke 
sadly  misread  what  her  pallor  and  the  obsessed  fixity 
of  her  look  expressed.  Ever  since  the  war  had 
broken,  opening  its  infinite  perspectives  of  fright  ful- 
ness, she  had  been  possessed  with  a  terror  which  was 
not  that  of  murder  or  fire,  of  breadless  days,  shelter- 
less nights,  a  devastated  future.    The  tragic  blow  that 


68      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

shook  all  souls  had  resounded  for  her  like  the  trumpet 
of  Judgment.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  end  of  the 
world  had  come,  and  in  dismay  she  saw  herself  out- 
side Christendom  bound  in  the  chains  of  a  guilty  love. 
She  thought  of  the  calamity  suspended  over  every 
housetop  like  an  avenging  angel  and  trembled  as  she 
heard  the  inner  voice  that  repeated:  **In  what  state 
do  ye  find  yourselves?"  She  felt  herself  over- 
whelmed again  by  those  impressions  of  intense, 
solemn  fear  which  her  childhood  had  known  and 
which  youth  and  love  had  lulled  with  their  perfumes 
of  the  flowering-season.  Flowers  of  a  carnal  spring, 
they  were  all  fallen  now;  the  storm  had  just  shaken 
off  the  last,  laid  bare  the  monstrosity  of  sin  of  which 
poor  Gotton  had  to  suffer  the  fixed  and  overwhelming 
vision.  And  still  she  asked  herself  how  she  could 
have  protected  herself  from  evil.  When  she  revived 
in  thought  the  weeks  of  infatuation,  when  she  recalled 
Luke's  words  and  his  look  and  how  she  had  felt  her- 
self gripped  day  by  day,  so  strongly,  so  surely,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  entered  love  in  a  manner 
as  mysterious  and  inevitable  as  that  in  which  one  is 
born  or  dies.  Because  of  just  this  and  because  she 
knew  that  she  had  not  wished  to  do  wrong,  she  be- 
lieved herself  doomed.  *'Oh!  who  will  help  me?" 
she  sighed,  and  she  had  hoped  passionately  that  Luke 
would  bring  her  one  of  his  children,  or  perhaps  two 
.  .  .  the  smallest,  if  possible  .  .  .  but,  no,  it  was  not 
possible!  Still,  one  never  knew.  .  .  .  Children  to 
protect,  to  care  for,  to  whom  she  might  give  her  own 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      69 

bread,  God!  how  she  would  love  them!  How  she 
would  sacrifice  for  them  with  all  her  heart,  if 
necessary ! 

It  had  always  seemed  to  her  that  the  children  one 
has  under  one's  roof  would  protect  one  against 
damnation.  But  Luke  had  come  back  quite  by  him- 
self, and  here  she  would  be  alone  with  him,  alone 
with  this  man  for  whom  she  had  lost  herself,  to  whom 
she  felt  she  belonged  with  every  fiber  of  her  being, 
whom  she  would  never  have  the  strength  to  leave  .  .  . 
alone,  useless  and  safely  sheltered,  behind  the  bars 
which  he  had  forged ! 

They  were  sitting  together,  silent,  in  the  room. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  do.  The  tocsin  had 
stopped ;  a  storm  was  brewing  in  the  sky.  At  the  last 
reports,  the  enemy  was  already  in  the  canton. 

Toward  seven  o'clock,  they  heard  on  the  road  the 
rapid  trot  of  a  detachment  of  cavalry.  Luke  climbed 
to  the  garret  and  placed  his  head  at  the  little  window: 
a  troop  of  Uhlans  was  crossing  the  village  in  close 
formation  and  good  order,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  flank 
to  flank,  the  men  silent  and  turning  their  heads 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  the  horses  enormous  and 
spirited,  darting  forward  with  fiery  steps  and  yet 
held  in  line.  It  was  as  when,  in  the  terrifying  im- 
mobility of  the  plain  before  the  storm,  the  first  squall 
passes,  brutally,  with  a  long  whistle  and  the  flutter 
of  the  fallen  leaves.  The  villagers  who,  like  Luke, 
had  placed  their  heads  at  their  garret  windows,  turned 


70      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

back  with  wavering  knees:  they  felt  breaking  upon 
them  the  violence  of  the  foreign  enemy. 

The  heavy  silence  of  expectation  fell  over 
Meulebeke. 

A  little  later,  a  company  of  infantry  halted  in  the 
square.  They  saw  the  captain,  a  big  man  with  a 
beard,  enter  the  burgomaster's  house,  then  come  out 
again  ten  minutes  later  to  give  his  commands.  The 
soldiers,  under  the  direction  of  non-commissioned 
officers,  scattered  in  little  groups:  two  of  them  came 
knocking  at  the  smithy.  Luke,  having  bidden  Gotton 
to  hide  herself  in  the  garret,  raised  the  Iron  bar  that 
reinforced  his  door  and  opened  to  them.  They  were 
two  young  boys  who  looked  like  two  brothers.  They 
had  a  worn  and  timid  look;  they  had  just  marched 
ten  hours,  they  were  covered  with  dust  and  smelled 
like  animals.  Their  narrow  skulls,  their  little  eyes 
under  their  heavy  swollen  eyelids,  their  great  lips, 
their  big  shoulders  announced  a  race  strangely  primi- 
tive; they  were  like  humble,  savage  serfs  from  the 
remote  parts  of  barbarous  provinces.  Luke's  master- 
ful air  filled  them  with  as  much  fear  as  that  of  a 
commander.  Luke  pointed  to  the  beaten  earth,  ex- 
plained with  a  gesture  that  they  were  to  sleep  there, 
then  went  to  find  some  bread,  bacon,  and  beer  for 
them.  Every  time  he  spoke  to  them,  the  two  soldiers 
replied:     "Danke  schon!'* 

The  night  passed  quietly  in  the  humiliated  village. 
The  sound  of  the  bugle  very  early  in  the  morning 
brought  the  men  together  in  the  square  for  the  roll- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      71 

call  and  drill.  The  people  all  day  left  them  the  run 
of  the  street  and  the  wine-shop:  not  a  soul  set  foot 
outside  his  house.  Shut  up  together,  Luke  and  Cot- 
ton were  the  most  wretched  of  all,  because  of  that  ir- 
remediable separation  their  guilty  life  had  established 
between  them  and  all  the  families,  all  the  good  Chris- 
tian folk,  of  this  village.  It  was  very  hard  to  be 
alone  and  as  it  were  exiles,  even  in  this  public  ordeal 
in  which  they  shared  nevertheless!  They  did  not 
refer  to  this  misery  between  themselves,  but  both  of 
them  drew  from  it  an  even  keener,  more  somber 
desire  for  love.  They  were  anxious  also.  They  were 
thinking  that  Iseghem  was  occupied  like  Meulebeke 
and,  in  spite  of  the  strange  calm  of  the  long  hours 
that  slipped  by,  Cotton  trembled  for  Luke's  children. 
This  calm  was  so  unexpected  after  all  the  tales  they 
had  heard !  It  reassured  nobody  and  simply  gave  them 
time  to  meditate  upon  the  indeterminable  menace  that 
himg  over  the  whole  country. 

Evening  slipped  into  the  room  where  the  black- 
smith and  his  mistress  were  dreaming  in  silence  their 
dreams  of  fear.  Suddenly  several  hasty  blows  re- 
sounded on  the  door  of  the  smithy. 

"Our  Cermans  have  come  to  look  for  their  dinner,** 
thought  Luke,  and  rose  to  open.  But  Cotton  heard 
him  speaking  in  Flemish  in  the  smithy;  she  realized 
that  someone  had  brought  him  news.  Her  heart 
began  to  leap  in  her  breast.  A  few  minutes  later 
Luke  returned  to  the  room,  white,  his  brow  beaded 
with  sweat.    He  remained  a  moment  motionless,  his 


72      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

eyes  fixed  on  space,  under  the  gaze  of  Gotton,  who  did 
not  dare  to  question  him.  Then  he  said  in  a  low 
voice:  "Evil  things  have  happened  at  Iseghem. 
Gertrude  has  been  killed,  with  her  sisters  and  her 
parents.  And  they  say  they're  to  burn  the  village.  I 
am  going  to  look  for  the  children." 

He  went  out  at  once. 

Gotton,  left  alone,  clasped  her  hands,  and  rocking 
her  pale  head  repeated  over  and  over:  "The  children 
will  perish  too;  it  is  certain  the  children  will  perish 
too!"  She  felt  that  the  hour  of  punishment  had 
come,  and  it  seemed  to  her  all  at  once  inevitable  that 
it  should  be  this  very  thing  the  terror  of  which  had 
mysteriously  haunted  her  for  three  weeks.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  nothing  could  be  worse.  She  could  have 
endured  it  better  if  Luke  himself  had  been  murdered 
or  taken  as  a  soldier  and  killed  in  the  war.  She  felt 
that  when  misery  makes  life  intolerable  one  can 
always  go  and  drown  oneself  in  a  canal  or  hang 
oneself  at  night  in  the  room  where  one  has  been  left 
alone,  but  how  was  it  possible  to  believe  that  water 
and  rope  would  deliver  one  from  the  remorse  that 
gnaws  from  within? 

Along  the  flat,  dusty  road  Luke  walked  with  great 
strides  between  the  mowed  fields.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  roofs  of  Iseghem,  still  a  mile  and  a  half 
away.  The  twilight  was  calm,  cloudy,  of  a  deep,  dull 
blue.  No  sign  of  distress  altered  the  habitual  sweet- 
ness of  evening,  and  the  usual  smoke  of  the  chimneys 
was  still  mounting,  in  slender  spirals,  in  the  motion- 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      73 

less  air.  Luke  advanced  with  great  speed,  knowing 
that  from  one  moment  to  another  the  flame  of  the 
conflagration  might  burst  from  their  peaceful  roofs. 
When  he  came  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
village,  he  heard  cries,  a  confused  uproar,  and  he  saw 
coming  toward  him,  along  the  straight  road,  some 
women  in  flight.  He  passed  through  them,  his  eyes 
seeking  his  little  ones  among  the  children  they  were 
dragging  along.  They  were  moving  on,  an  incoherent 
procession,  calling  out  for  their  lost  ones.  Many  had 
their  clothes  torn  and  bore  the  marks  of  blows  and 
tears  on  their  convulsed  faces.  Luke  saw  that  his 
children  were  not  among  them.  He  did  not  stop  to 
ask  questions,  but  one  of  the  women  suddenly  recog- 
nized him  and,  pointing  her  finger  at  him,  screamed 
out: 

"Ah!  Look  at  him!  So  only  the  bad  ones  are 
going  to  escape  I" 

Luke  entered  the  village.  An  odor  of  petrol  in- 
fected the  air.  The  street  was  full  of  soldiers.  In  the 
twilight  was  a  clamorous  crowd  of  men  in  gray  uni- 
forms: some,  drunk  with  wine  or  bloodlust,  marching 
about  with  rolling  shoulders  and  singing,  others,  calm 
and  busy,  under  the  direction  of  non-commissioned 
officers,  handling  the  pumps  with  the  mechanical  pre- 
cision of  the  German  infantryman  on  drill. 

Luke  ascended  the  street.  There  at  the  left  was  the 
house  with  its  green  blinds  and  the  forge  where  he 
had  lived  ten  years  with  his  wife  and  from  which  he 
had  set  forth  one  spring  morning  never  to  return. 


74      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

A  little  further  on  he  arrived  in  front  of  Moorslede's 
house,  to  which  Gertrude  had  returned  with  her  five 
children  after  he  had  abandoned  her. 

The  door  was  wide  open.  He  entered.  In  the  low 
entrance  room  where  he  had  been  abused  the  day 
before  by  the  pride  of  a  sturdy  peasant  family,  he 
smelled  the  odor  of  blood.  The  shadow  was  already 
too  black  for  him  to  distinguish  anything,  but  he  had 
hardly  crossed  the  threshold  when  shrill  cries  rose 
from  a  corner  of  the  chamber.  The  children  were 
there,  terrified  in  this  darkness.  He  called  their 
names:  Jean-Baptiste !  Catherine!  Jean!  Bernard! 
Louis !  But  they  only  began  to  cry  more  desperately. 
It  was  like  the  distracted  tumult  one  hears  at  night 
in  a  nest  of  little  birds  mangled  by  an  owl. 

Feeling  his  way,  he  tried  to  go  toward  the  corner 
where  the  little  ones  were  cowering.  His  foot  struck 
against  an  obstacle ;  he  fell  on  his  hands  over  a  corpse. 
He  raised  himself,  and  his  hands,  to  which  clots  of 
stickiness  adhered,  sought  the  face  of  the  dead  one. 
From  the  long  beard  whose  whiteness  he  now  dis- 
tinguished in  the  darkness,  he  recognized  his  father- 
in-law,  old  Moorslede,  a  tall,  heavy  man  who,  at 
seventy  years,  had  kept  his  rosy  cheeks  under  his 
silvery  hair;  a  man  who  had  been  kind  to  him  once, 
during  those  years  when  he  had  called  him  his  son. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  taste  of  blood  filled  his  mouth, 
and  the  cries  of  the  children  brought  tears  of  anguish 
to  his  eyes.  At  last  he  perceived  in  one  comer,  to 
the  left  of  the  fire-place,  the  little  convulsive  group. 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      75 

He  approached,  throwing  himself  on  his  knees, 
stretching  his  arms  confusedly  about  them,  like  a  bird 
spreading  her  wings  over  her  brood,  and  he  spoke 
to  them  so  softly  that  he  calmed  them  and  felt  their 
little  bodies  cease  from  trembling  against  his  breast. 
"You  must  come  with  me,"  he  said  to  them.  "I  am 
your  Papa;  no  one  will  do  you  any  harm."  He  rose 
up.  His  eldest  son  took  him  by  the  kand  and  dragged 
him  toward  the  adjoining  room.  A  remnant  of  day- 
light was  entering  there  through  a  window  whose  dull 
greenish  little  panes  faced  the  setting  sun.  He  dis- 
tinguished on  the  floor  several  stretched  out  forms, 
and  more  blood  spread  out  in  black  blotches.  He 
knew  that  he  was  going  to  see  Gertrude:  he  wanted 
to  turn  away  his  head  and  flee.  But  the  child  did  not 
loosen  his  hand  and  dominated  him  with  his  passionate 
will.  He  led  him  thus  up  to  the  window:  there,  rais- 
ing a  dim  sheet,  he  revealed  his  mother's  corpse 
stretched  out,  straight  and  rigid,  the  face  raised,  the 
eyes  wide  open,  the  stomach  rent  open  by  the  strokes 
of  a  saber  or  a  bayonet.  A  little  white  kerchief  en- 
circled the  wrinkled  neck  and  diffused  in  the  shadow 
a  livid  phosphorescence  over  the  uninjured  face.  The 
expression  of  this  face  remained  absolutely  unre- 
lated to  the  hideous  wound,  from  which  the  entrails 
were  escaping:  it  was  calm  and  hard,  imprinted  with 
a  strange,  an  august  dignity.  Motionless,  the  father 
and  the  son  regarded  it.  Suddenly  a  clamor  arose  in 
the  street  and  they  heard  the  sound  of  many  people 
running  rapidly.    Luke  realized  that  the  burning  had 


76   THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

begun.  They  must  fly.  He  placed  his  hand  on  the 
child's  shoulder.  The  latter  stooped  over  the  face  of 
the  dead  woman  and,  before  covering  her,  kissed  her 
hollow  cheek. 

A  minute  later  Luke,  with  the  five  children,  the 
smallest  of  whom  he  carried  in  his  arms,  descended  the 
village  street.  Already  the  smoke  was  stinging  their 
throats,  and  behind  them  the  flames  were  mounting. 
There  were  still  a  number  of  German  soldiers  going 
off  in  little  groups,  jostling  each  other,  with  great  re- 
sounding laughs.  A  few  of  them  pointed  their  fingers 
mockingly  at  the  lame  man  who  was  fleeing,  sur- 
rounded by  children,  but  they  did  not  do  them  any 
harm.  One,  standing  all  alone  at  the  end  of  the  village, 
wept  as  he  saw  them  go  by. 

The  reflection  of  the  flames  on  the  clouds  covered 
the  plain  with  an  immense  red  canopy,  lighting  up 
here  and  there,  on  all  the  roads,  the  pitiful  little  black 
bands  of  people  who  had  been  driven  from  their 
homes,  who  were  wandering  among  the  fields  which 
they  had  cultivated  with  their  hands,  over  the  earth 
where  they  no  longer  had  any  shelter.  When  the 
little  ones  were  too  weary,  Luke  sat  down  with  them 
on  the  edge  of  the  road;  he  supported  their  heads  on 
his  shoulders,  on  his  knees;  faint  sobs  shook  them 
at  intervals;  if  they  saw  a  German  soldier  passing, 
they  trembled  and  hid  their  faces. 

When,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  Gotton  opened 
the  door  on  the  side  of  the  garden  and  saw  Luke  en- 
tering with  the  five  children,  tears  of  joy  overflowed 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      77 

her  eyes.  "Oh,  Luke,"  she  cried,  "no  harm  has  come 
to  them?"  "No,"  said  Luke;  "have  you  anything  to 
eat?"  As  if  to  exorcise  her  misgivings,  she  had  made 
ready  just  as  if  she  beHeved  that  the  children  were 
coming ;  she  had  boiled  the  soup,  and  put  clean  sheets 
on  the  big  bed  where  they  were  to  sleep.  With  fresh 
towels  she  washed  from  their  hands  and  faces  the 
marks  of  blood,  then  unlaced  the  little  shoes  on  their 
swollen  feet.  No  longer  frightened,  they  allowed 
themselves  to  be  fed,  undressed,  embraced  without  re- 
sistance, and  little  by  little  the  stupefaction  of  their 
wild  young  eyes  gave  place  to  that  sort  of  weary 
torpor  which  one  sees  in  children  overwhelmed  with 
fatigue.  Gotton  stretched  them  out,  all  five,  side 
by  side,  on  the  bed.  Luke  and  she  lay  down  on  the 
floor,  but  every  quarter  of  an  hour  she  got  up  to  over- 
see the  sleep  of  the  children.  The  eldest  was  flushed 
and  agitated;  he  seemed  to  have  fever;  the  others 
were  sleeping  peacefully.  Gotton  marveled  over  the 
fair  curls  and  the  red  curls  mingled  on  the  bolster,  the 
cheeks  which  in  sleep  seemed  to  swell  with  a  warmer 
blood,  the  soft  lips  which,  at  moments,  stirred,  yield- 
ing to  some  fleeting  dream,  the  eyelids,  so  white,  so 
delicate,  the  golden  eyelashes.  With  what  an  ardent 
gaze  she  caressed  the  little  heads!  Here  was  the 
realization  of  what  she  had  so  long  dreamed,  the 
house  full  of  children!  In  a  few  days  they  would 
laugh,  these  little  ones,  they  would  forget,  at  least  the 
youngest  would,  the  poor  woman  who  had  borne  them 
and   suckled   them,   and   who   was   lying  now,   her 


78      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

stomach  gaping,  in  a  room  of  her  house.  Tliey 
would  embrace  Gotton,  the  aduUeress,  for  whom  their 
mother  had  been  set  at  naught ;  she  would  comb  their 
beautiful  hair.  No,  Gotton  felt  clearly  that  this  was 
impossible.  Then  what  was  going  to  happen?  What 
would  Luke  wish  to  do?  She  did  not  doubt  that  now 
the  children  would  take  up  all  his  heart.  Her  own 
desire  to  be  a  mother  had  made  her  understand  what 
the  love  of  parents  for  their  little  ones  can  be.  It 
seemed  to  her  inevitable  that  this  love  should  end  by 
being  the  stronger  and  by  conquering  in  the  father's 
heart  the  love  of  the  wife.  She  recalled  again  that 
spring-time  three  years  ago,  and  each  of  the  steps 
that  had  led  her  toward  her  error.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  had  entered  upon  this  life  like  a  poor 
simpleton  w^ho  knows  nothing  and  will  not  listen  to 
those  who  do  know.  The  mystery  which  the  child 
learns  through  tenderness  in  the  warmth  of  the  ma- 
ternal arms,  her  father  had  not  revealed  to  her;  she 
had  discovered  it  too  late,  as  a  woman,  through  her 
own  suffering. 

Jean-Baptiste  turned  over  on  the  bed  murmuring: 
"Mamma!  Mamma!"  Gotton  looked  at  him  more 
closely.  She  saw  on  his  face  the  stamp  of  Luke's 
tenacity.  She  felt  that  this  one  would  not  forget. 
He  would  hate  her  with  all  his  strength.  It  was  the 
same  child  who,  last  spring,  had  ihrown  a  stone 
at  her. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  already  eleven  or  twelve 
years  old.     If  things  did  not  settle  themselves,  they 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      79 

could  send  him  out  as  an  apprentice,  keeping  the 
others  at  home.  Gotton  reahzed  that  after  all  Luke 
was  free  now;  he  could  marry  her  to-morrow,  she 
would  be  the  legitimate  wife,  the  second  wife  who  has 
the  right  to  bring  up  the  children  of  the  first,  and  the 
dead  woman  would  be  effaced,  replaced,  finally  van- 
quished; she  would  not  even  have  a  grave  where  the 
children  could  go  and  pray,  for,  in  the  immense  con- 
flagration, which  was  reddening  half  the  sky,  her 
body  would  undoubtedly  be  no  more  than  a  little  heap 
of  blackened  bones  among  the  ruins.  Of  Gertrude 
Moorslede  there  would  be  no  longer  any  question: 
and  yet  she  might  live  in  these  little  children's  hearts 
to  repulse  the  love  of  the  barren  girl. 

"I  must  go  away!"  Gotton  repeated  to  herself;  and 
the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks.  In  the  three 
years  since  she  had  left  Metsys,  she  had  known  noth- 
ing in  the  whole  world  but  the  silent,  passionate  figure 
of  Luke.  Her  own  land  was  for  her  a  desert;  there 
was  not  another  soul  with  whom  she  could  seek 
refuge.  To  go  away — that  meant  to  die  in  heart  and 
in  body. 

Nevertheless,  without  knowing  how  it  would  be 
possible,  she  felt  sure  that  she  would  go.  Then  she 
thought,  "li  I  might  be  killed  too?  It  ought  not  to 
be  difficult!'*  She  walked  to  the  window,  leaning  her 
heavy  brow  against  the  glass,  and  as  she  watched  the 
reflection  of  the  fire  trembling  on  the  edge  of  the 
clouds,  she  plunged  into  the  thought  of  the  abyss. 

Morning  broke,  sad  and  dreary  like  eyes  that  have 


80      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

wept  tcK)  much.  A  fine  rain  beat  down  to  the  horizon 
the  smoke  of  the  conflagration.  After  they  had  heard 
the  German  bugle  sound  the  muster,  Luke  went  out 
into  the  village  while  Gotton  dressed  the  children. 
He  came  back  in  about  half  an  hour  and  made  a  sign 
that  he  wished  to  speak  to  her  aside.  She  followed 
him  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  he  said: 

"A  German  soldier  has  been  killed  in  the  com- 
mune. I  have  seen  him.  He's  behind  the  hedge  of 
old  Van  Dooren,  who  showed  him  to  me;  he  must 
have  been  killed  last  night  in  a  quarrel  among  the 
soldiers  and  dragged  there  afterwards;  there's  no 
blood  and  the  wounds  were  made  with  a  knife.  The 
body  is  covered  with  leaves.  No  doubt  whoever  killed 
him  meant  to  bury  him  there  and  then  he  was  afraid 
and  hid  him  quickly,  as  best  he  could.  They  were 
all  drunk  here  last  evening,  and  it  seems  that  soldiers 
were  heard  coming  from  Iseghem,  singing  and  shout- 
ing like  lunatics  after  the  fire  and  all  the  dirty  things 
they'd  done.  The  man  who  was  killed  must  have  been 
one  of  them,  for  they've  already  called  the  roll  of 
those  who  are  here  and  if  one  had  been  missing  we 
should  have  heard  the  noise  of  it.  But  when  they 
find  this  one,  it's  we  who'll  pay  for  it;  there's  a  good 
chance  that  we'll  be  burned  out  as  Iseghem  was.  We 
must  try  to  get  away  in  time." 

**Luke,"  said  she,  *'how  can  we  do  it?  With  the 
children  and  no  cart!  Look  at  Jean-Baptiste,  all 
feverish ;  you  could  not  make  him  walk  half  a  league. 
And  where  should  we  go?" 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO   81 

He  was  silent,  and  then  Gotton  said  brusquely: 
''Go  for  me  to  the  priest  at  Metsys.  Tell  him  all 
that  has  happened  and  that  we  have  the  children  with 
us,  and  ask  him  co  lend  us  his  chaise  and  his  mare  to 
save  them.  He  will  do  it,  he  is  very  kind.  Then  you 
can  drive  us  to  Malines.  And  tell  him  that  he  must 
give  me  his  blessing  and  pray  for  me." 

*T  can't  leave  you  here  alone.  You  must  come  with 
me  and  bring  the  children." 

"No,"  she  said.    *ln  an  hour  and  a  half  you'll  be 
back.     If  any  disaster  happens  in  the  village  before 
then,  we  shall  go  and  wait  for  you  in  the  road." 
She  added,  with  a  sudden  pride: 
"They'll  never  see  me  begging  at  Metsys!" 
He  did  not  insist,  for  she  had  a  look  that  showed 
she  would  not  yield ;  and  he  left  in  haste. 

While  he  was  speaking,  in  a  flash  Gotton  had 
glimpsed  her  redemption.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
some  great  mercy  had  come  to  give  her  a  sign;  she 
knew  now  what  she  would  do.  Scarcely  had  Luke 
left  when  she  went  to  seek  in  an  old  drawer  a  little 
bottle  of  ink  and  a  pen.  She  opened  a  box  of  letter- 
paper  ornamented  with  flowers  which  he  had  naively 
brought  to  her  one  day,  not  thinking  that  she  never 
wrote  to  anyone.  With  her  untaught  hand>  in  great 
awkward  characters,  she  wrote: 

"Luke,  I  must  go  away;  I  cannot  bring  up  these  little  ones 
after  all  the  harm  I  have  done  to  their  mother.  I  should  love 
them ;  they  would  perhaps  detest  me :  they  would  have  reason  to. 
I  should  die  of  shame  and  grief.    As  for  you,  you  ought  to  live 


82      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

for  them  now ;  you  should  marry ;  they  must  have  a  mother,  and 
it  should  not  be  an  unworthy  one  like  me.  I  am  thinking  of  that 
young  girl  at  the  Van  Doorens'.  I  have  heard  people  say  that 
she  is  very  good.  She  has  never  said  unkind  things  to  me.  Per- 
haps she  would  be  willing.  Do  this  as  soon  as  possible.  Luke, 
I  have  been  very  happy  with  you,  but  it  could  not  go  on  after 
what  has  happened.  Do  not  have  too  many  regrets.  If  you  hear 
soon  that  I,  too,  have  died,  be  happy  for  us  both.  It  will  be 
the  sign  that  we  are  forgiven. 

"Your  poor  sweetheart,  who  loves  you  and  esteems  you 
forever, 

"GOTTON   CONNIXLOO." 

She  folded  the  pretty  flowered  paper,  placed  her 
letter  in  an  envelope,  upon  v^hich  she  wrote,  "Luke 
Heemskerck,"  and  laid  it  on  the  mantelpiece.  She  em- 
braced the  children,  bidding  Catherine  to  keep  a  good 
watch  over  her  little  brothers  and  not  allow  them  to 
go  out  into  the  garden,  for  the  rain  was  falling  now 
very  heavily.  Then,  in  her  turn,  she  went  out,  wrap- 
ping the  folds  of  her  shawl  around  her  breast.  She 
walked  quickly,  passing  in  the  street  a  number  of 
soldiers  who  were  smoking  or  whistling  and  a  few 
stray,  silent  villagers,  hugging  the  walls.  More  than 
one  face  was  already  white  with  fear  and  stamped 
with  the  anguish  of  death. 

She  crossed  the  village  and  followed  the  road  to  a 
little  path  which  led  to  that  farm  of  the  Van  Doorens 
near  which  Luke  had  said  that  a  Get-man  corpse  was 
hidden.  The  farmers,  their  children,  their  work- 
people were  prudently  keeping  themselves  shut  up,  and 
it  was  plain  that  the  news  of  the  murder  had  not 
spread    among  the  Germans,   for  there  was  not  a 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      83 

living  soul  to  be  seen  in  this  neighborhood.  Gotton 
skirted  the  hedge  that  enclosed  the  kitchen-garden  of 
the  farm.  Near  the  second  turning,  she  perceived  a 
heap  of  branches  that  seemed  to  have  been  torn  from 
a  wild  quince-tree,  the  boughs  of  which,  full  of  fruit, 
hung  over  the  hedge  just  at  this  spot.  Timidly  she 
stooped  over  and  lifted  the  wet  rustling  leaves,  and 
suddenly  she  saw  the  cadaverous  head  with  its  viscous 
eyes  filled  with  intolerable  terror.  She  bent  still  fur- 
ther, observed  still  more  closely  the  hideous  gashes 
that  yawned  on  both  sides  of  the  neck,  then  the  de- 
tails of  the  uniform,  the  number  sewed  on  the 
shoulder-strap.  When  she  had  carefully  examined 
everything,  she  let  the  leafy  branches  fall  and  went 
back  in  the  heavy  rain,  by  the  still  deserted  path,  then 
by  the  road  to  the  village,  where  she  stopped  in  front 
of  the  town  hall. 

In  the  town  hall,  the  captain  of  the  company 
quartered  in  Meulebeke  was  working  with  his  two 
lieutenants.  Some  maps  of  western  Flanders  were 
spread  out  before  them  on  a  large  table,  on  a  corner 
of  which  were  placed  a  large  jug  of  beer  and  three 
glasses  which  they  frequently  filled  and  emptied. 

An  orderly  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Captain,  there's  a  woman  here  who  insists  on  com- 
ing in.*' 

"A  woman  who  wants  to  come  in  ?  Go  and  see  her, 
Hillmer,"  said  the  captain.  "It  may  be  some  in- 
formation." 


84      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

Lieutenant  Hillmer  was  an  officer  with  a  very  mili- 
tary air.  He  had  a  great  purple  neck  that  projected 
in  rolls  over  his  coat  collar,  a  square  jaw,  beautiful 
white  teeth.  With  the  swiftness  and  rigidity  of  an 
excellent  mechanism,  he  rose  and  went  out. 

He  came  back  at  the  end  of  a  few  minutes. 

**It  is  a  girl  of  the  neighborhood,  captain,  who  has 
the  air  of  a  madwoman.  She  has  come  to  say  that 
she  killed  a  soldier  last  night." 

The  captain  could  not  repress  a  start. 

"What,  here,  in  our  cantonment,  a  shot  has  been 
fired?" 

*'No,  he  was  killed  with  a  knife — at  least  that's  the 
story  this  woman  tells.  It  couldn't  be  a  man  of  the 
company.  No  one  was  missing  at  the  roll-call  this 
morning." 

A  silence  followed.  Lieutenant  Hillmer  looked  his 
captain  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  a  smile  of  expecta- 
tion raised  his  leathery  lip  from  his  white  teeth.  The 
captain,  a  big  man  with  a  light  beard,  whose  drawn 
eyelids  blinked,  passed  and  repassed  his  hand  over  his 
forehead. 

"We  must  try  her,"  he  said,  "and  w^e'll  see  if  we 
can't  cut  the  affair  short  with  an  execution." 

"Excuse  me,  captain,"  replied  Hillmer;  "you  re- 
call our  orders:  collective  punishment  every  time  we 
have  had  a  man  killed.  The  case  of  spontaneous  con- 
fession was  not  foreseen." 

"Ah,  well!  before  a  case  that  has  not  been  fore- 
seen I  interpret  the  orders,  devil  take  it!    I  interpret 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      85 

them!  Look  here,  Hillmer,  do  you  imagine  that  I 
want  to  burn  this  hole?  Do  you  imagine  that  would 
give  me  pleasure,  what?  Haven't  you  had  enough  of 
this  beastly  business?  It's  fifteen  days  since  I've 
slept.  My  head's  bursting !  Do  let  us  have  peace  and 
try  to  arrange  it  so  that  we  can  sleep  quietly  here  this 
evening." 

He  folded  his  maps  and  straightened  out  the  table 
e  little,  then,  reseating  himself,  said  in  a  calmer  voice: 

"Well,  then,  we  shall  constitute  ourselves  a  tribunal. 
Hillmer  to  the  right,  Franz  to  the  left.  Hillmer,  you 
have  an  interpreter?" 

"Yes,  captain!  I  have  had  the  burgomaster  come 
down." 

"That's  good.  You  may  go  now  and  find  the  ad- 
jutant, who  will  serve  us  as  a  clerk,  and  we'll  ques- 
tion this  woman." 

The  young  man  whom  the  captain  had  called  Franz 
took  his  place,  then  stretched  his  legs  under  the  table, 
throwing  his  shoulders  against  the  back  of  the  chair. 
He  had  the  manner  of  a  young  man  about  town, 
slender,  with  white  skin,  flat  cheeks,  a  careless,  mock- 
ing smile.  He  remarked,  in  his  cold  and  rather  shrill 
voice : 

"It's  not  the  usual  thing  all  the  same,  this  affair, 
captain.  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  hurry  it  too 
much  ?" 

The  captain  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  indulgence 
for  this  young  man.  He  lightly  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders.    "Listen  to  that!"  he  said.     "There's  a  type  of 


86      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

intellectual  for  you !  He  turns  war  into  a  search  for 
curiosities !"  And  he  smiled  at  him  with  an  affection- 
ate air. 

At  the  same  moment  Lieutenant  Hillmer  re-entered 
with  the  adjutant,  to  whom  the  captain  handed  a 
copy-book,  a  pen  and  a  bottle  of  ink.  All  being  in 
their  places,  the  adjutant  went  to  open  the  door  and 
made  a  sign  outside.  Gotton  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old between  two  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets.  Be- 
hind her  came  the  burgomaster,  who  was  being  held 
as  a  hostage  in  the  town  hall,  a  respectable  man  who 
had  never  spoken  to  Gotton  in  his  life,  and  who, 
trembling  all  over  with  fear,  fixed  upon  her  an  in- 
dignant stare.  She  was  quite  wet  from  the  rain;  her 
fair  hair  streamed  over  her  pale  cheeks  which  anguish, 
in  these  few  days,  had  hollowed.  She  stood  with  her 
hands  hanging;  her  glistening  eyes  scrutinized  the 
three  faces  of  the  officers,  moving  from  one  to  the 
other,  trying  to  catch  on  these  physiognomies  the 
sense  of  the  strange  words.  Her  heart  was  beating 
so  hard  that  she  feared  she  was  going  to  fall. 

"You  say  you  have  killed  a  German  soldier?'*  asked 
the  captain,  and  the  burgomaster  translated. 

Without  lowering  her  eyes,  Gotton  signified,  yes, 

"Why?'* 

She  made  no  reply. 

"You  mean,"  insinuated  young  Lieutenant  Franz, 
"you  don't  feel  like  telling  us  that  he  was  too  amiable, 
the  poor  boy?" 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      87 

The  burgomaster  did  not  translate.  The  captain  in- 
auired: 

"Where  is  the  body?'' 

"Behind  the  Van  Doorens*  farm,"  said  Gotten.  "I 
carried  it  there  last  night  to  hide  it." 

"You  do  not  wish  to  say  why  you  have  committed 
this  murder.  But  why  have  you  come  to  denounce 
yourself?" 

"So  that  you  will  do  no  harm  to  the  village,"  she 
answered. 

As  they  looked  at  one  another,  talking,  she  felt 
that  what  she  had  said  had  not  had  the  air  of  truth, 
and  these  three  men  seemed  to  her  so  entirely  with- 
out anger  that  she  feared  she  was  to  be  simply  dis- 
missed as  a  simpleton.  She  held  herself  motionless, 
watching  their  least  gestures,  her  mouth»  slightly  open, 
a  strange  green  light  quivering  in  her  glittering  eye- 
balls. All  the  energy  of  her  profound  nature  con- 
centrated itself  in  the  desire  to  be  believed  and  to 
obtain  the  grace  of  the  expiation. 

They  had  finished  speaking.  With  a  single  move- 
ment all  three  straightened  themselves,  and  a  sort  of 
impersonal  majesty  strangely  informed  their  faces. 
The  captain  scanned  a  brief  formula,  then  raised  his 
head  and  brought  his  chin  forward  with  a  gesture  of 
dismissal.  Cotton  realized  that  her  desire  had  been 
granted.  As  she  went  out,  Lieutenant  Hillmer  fol- 
lowed her  and  addressed  himself  to  the  orderly  on 
duty  at  the  door  of  the  room. 


88      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

"Find  me  at  once  six  men  of  the  company/*  he  said 
to  him.     "It's  for  an  execution  squad." 

In  the  chamber  where  they  were  spreading  out  the 
maps  again,  the  pale  little  lieutenant,  with  his  care- 
less smile,  said  to  the  captain: 

"You  understood,  didn't  you,  that  her  story  was 
not  true?'* 

The  captain  made  a  gesture  that  signified.  What 
does  it  matter?  and  added: 

"If  it  wasn't  she,  it  was  her  lover.    I  repeat  to  you 

that  I  have  no  desire  to  burn  this  village.    When  the 

affair  gets  abroad,  it  will  be  a  good  thing  to  be  able  to 

show  that  justice  has  been  done." 

***** 

The  following  morning,  Luke  Heemskerck  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  chorister  Connixloo.  He  found 
him  alone,  seated,  his  head  between  his  hands,  in  the 
dark  room  where  for  three  years  no  one  had  swept 
away  the  cobwebs.  Connixloo,  rising,  drew  back  a 
step  as  he  saw  the  blacksmith  enter. 

"Your  daughter  is  dead,  Mr.  Connixloo/'  said 
Heemskerck. 

"She  has  been  dead,  yes,  for  three  years,  for  me." 

"She  died  of  her  own  will,  Mr.  Connixloo,  and  to 
save  Meulebeke.    It  is  necessary  for  you  to  know  this." 

Without  responding,  Connixloo,  as  if  listening, 
raised  his  head  with  its  knotted  temples,  pallid  like 
an  old  parchment,  and  his  teeth  chattered. 

The  blacksmith  told  him  of  the  burning  of  Iseghem, 
how  he  had  carried  his  children  to  Meulebeke,  how 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      89 

Gotton  had  nursed  them  and  put  them  to  bed,  then  of 
the  uneasiness  he  had  felt  the  day  before  for  Meu- 
lebeke  after  the  discovery  of  the  corpse  hidden  be- 
hind the  Van  Doorens'  hedge,  his  desire  to  leave,  the 
ruse  which  Gotton  had  planned  in  order  to  get  him 
out  of  the  way. 

"When  I  reached  Metsys,"  he  said,  "and  asked 
for  his  reverence,  his  reverence  was  very  kind;  he 
came  down  to  speak  to  me  himself  and  asked  me 
news  of  Gotton.  He  told  me,  as  I  might  have  ex- 
pected, that  he  had  lent  his  chaise  and  his  mare  eight 
days  before  to  a  widow  of  the  parish  who  had  set 
out  for  Antwerp  with  her  children.  'Everybody 
knows,'  he  said,  'that  the  priest  doesn't  leave,  and  also 
that  his  chaise  is  the  first  one  to  be  lent.  I  should  have 
been  glad,'  he  said,  'to  do  something  for  Gotton.' 

"Then  I  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  road  back  to 
Meulebeke.  As  I  descended  the  road  before  enter- 
ing my  house,  I  looked  about  to  see  if  anything  had 
changed. 

"I  noticed  that  people  made  way  for  me  as  I  passed 
and  that,  nevertheless,  they  looked  at  me.  I  asked  a 
neighbor  in  the  square,  'Anything  new?'  He  pointed 
to  the  houses  which  were  quite  peaceful,  and  said  to 
me,  'You  can  see  for  yourself.'  Then  I  entered  the 
smithy  and  found  a  letter  that  Gotton  had  written  to 
me:  she  said  that  she  was  going  away,  that  she  could 
not  bring  up  my  children,  and  she  allowed  me  to  see 
clearly  that  the  thought  of  seeking  death  was  in  her 
mind.    I  ran  out,  I  saw  a  crowd  in  front  of  the  town 


90      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

hall ;  one  of  the  men  who  was  there  came  toward  me 
and  embraced  me  weeping,  saying:  'She  has  saved 
the  village!'  Then  I  understood  everything,  Mr. 
Connixloo:  that  she  had  been  to  tell  the  officers  in 
the  town  hall,  that  she  had  said  she  had  killed  the 
soldier,  and  that  she  was  dead. 

"There  were  a  great  many  people  around  me,  some 
of  whom  embraced  me,  while  others  said:  Tt's  an 
outrage!' — for  they  thought  it  was  I  who  had  com- 
mitted the  murder.  As  for  me,  my  head  was  turn- 
ing. ...  I  cried,  Where  is  she?'  and  at  the  same 
time  I  couldn't  take  another  step.  They  led  me  to 
the  place  where  the  soldiers  had  shot  her,  behind  the 
town  hall,  against  the  wall  of  the  garden.  She  was 
there,  lying  on  the  ground,  with  a  face  as  sweet  as 
a  child's.  And  her  clothes,  her  black  shawl,  were  all 
covered  with  blood,  and  the  wall  was  bespattered  too. 
Beside  her  was  a  soldier,  with  bayonet  fixed.  I  cried 
out:  Tt's  my  wife,  I  want  to  carry  her  away!'  But 
the  soldier  pushed  me  off  with  his  bayonet.  I  under- 
stood that  the  officers  had  given  an  order  that  every- 
body should  see  her  and  take  fear  from  it.  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  the  officers,  but  they  would  not  let  me 
enter  the  hall.  Then  I  remained  near  her  on  my  knees 
till  nightfall.  The  rain  fell  on  her  and  drenched  her 
cheeks;  I  saw  her  blood  flowing  in  the  little  streams 
of  water.  Toward  seven  o'clock,  a  soldier  came  to 
speak  with  the  sentinel;  then  they  made  a  sign  to 
me  that  I  could  take  her  away,  that  they  would  leave 
her  for  me  to  bury  her.    I  carried  her  to  the  forge  and 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      91 

I  have  not  buried  her,  Mr.  Connixloo,  because  I 
beHeve  that  it  would  have  been  her  wish  to  be  placed 
in  the  cemetery  of  Metsys  by  the  side  of  her  mother, 
if  you  wish  it,  Mr.  Connixloo.  ..."    ' 

The  chorister  seemed  overwhelmed.  He  murmured: 
**My  poor  little  girl!  My  poor  little  girl!  And  she 
was  not  even  confessed !"  Heemskerck  did  not  reply, 
and  for  a  moment  nothing  was  heard  in  the  low  room 
but  the  stifled  sound  of  sobs. 

'T  will  go  with  you,"  said  Connixloo.  *We  shall 
have  only  our  arms,  I  think,  to  carry  her  here." 

They  set  out  together,  the  old  chorister  and  the 
blacksmith,  the  weight  of  sorrow  bending  their  shoul- 
ders, as  they  walked  through  the  fields  thickly  strewn 
with  white  flowery  clusters  out  of  which  rose,  for 
them,  the  image  of  Cotton. 

They  passed  on  their  left  the  ruins  of  Iseghem,  a 
skeleton  village,  shattered,  blackened,  still  smoking. 
The  road  was  deserted  and  crossed  with  great  puddles. 

"I  have  grievously  offended  you,  Mr.  Conixloo," 
said  Heemskerck;  "but  you  see,  your  daughter,  I 
would  have  given  my  life  ten  times  for  her.  I  loved 
her  so  that  I  would  not  have  believed  it  possible  to  lose 
her.    But  God  is  the  master.  .  .  . 

"If  I  am  asking  you  what  I  am  asking  you,  Mr. 
Connixloo,"  he  went  on,  after  a  heavy  silence, 
"it  is  because  of  a  sentence  which  she  wrote  to  me 
before  she  went  to  find  the  officers  in  the  town  hall: 
Tf  you  hear  soon  that  I,  too,  have  died,  be  happy 
for  us  both;  it  will  be  the  sign  that  we  are  forgiven.' 


92      THE  STORY  OF  COTTON  CONNIXLOO 

I  am  afraid  that  she  suffered  great  torment  from 
thoughts  which  I  did  not  know  of.  She  went  to  her 
death  with  the  hope  of  being  pardoned  by  God:  I 
believe  that  she  would  have  dearly  wished  to  know 
that  her  father  would  pardon  her  also,  and  her 
village." 

Connixloo  lifted  an  arm  above  his  head,  with  a 
strange  gesture  as  if  to  defend  himself  before  the 
divine  majesty,  and  he  murmured: 

"God  is  the  judge ;  as  for  me,  I  pardon  my  child.*' 

They  arrived  at  the  forge.  Connixloo  drew  back 
at  the  threshold  as  he  saw  the  white,  veiled  form 
stretched  out  in  the  shadow,  on  the  floor  of  beaten 
earth. 

Then,  approaching,  he  lifted  the  shroud  himself. 
Luke  had  washed  the  wounds  of  the  dead ;  he  had  re- 
moved her  clothes,  soiled  with  blood  and  mire,  and 
had  dressed  her  in  a  long  chemise;  he  had  joined  her 
hands  together  and  parted  the  hair,  which  descended 
like  two  rivulets  of  gold  all  the  way  to  her  knees. 
And  now  he  no  longer  dared  to  kiss  her;  she  had 
become  so  distant,  so  pure,  so  tranquil !  She  no  longer 
had  need  of  him,  or  of  anything.  She  had  reached 
the  end  of  love,  as  she  had  reached  the  end  of  expia- 
tion; she  seemed  plunged  in  an  immovable  satisfac- 
tion, and  perhaps  that  strong,  blissful  ardor  of  which 
she  had  dreamed  as  a  little  girl,  in  front  of  the  church 
windows  of  Metsys,  before  the  age  of  earthly  pas- 
sion, had  become  her  destiny. 

The  children  were  gathered  in  an  adjoining  room. 


THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO      93 

Catherine  had  just  lighted  the  fire  and  prudently,  as 
she  had  seen  her  mother  do,  she  was  paring  some 
potatoes  and  carrots  which  she  had  taken  from  among 
the  provisions  heaped  up  in  the  garret.  She  had 
washed  her  little  brothers,  who  were  neat  and  fresh 
and  were  laughing  as  they  played.  Luke,  who  had 
half  opened  the  door,  gazed  at  them.  She,  who  had 
been  all  the  beauty,  all  the  sweetness,  all  the  intoxica- 
tion of  life,  was  lying  there  in  eternal  silence,  and 
yet  the  house  had  never  been  so  full  of  youthful 
strength  and  youthful  hope.  These  children,  who  had 
seen  their  mother  murdered  scarcely  two  days  before, 
were  accustoming  themselves  to  a  new  home  with  all 
the  humble  and  vigorous  docility  of  their  age.  Luke 
thought,  as  he  looked  at  them,  that  now  his  house 
belonged  to  them,  his  life  also,  everything  that  was 
his,  and  that  Gotton  had  wished  it  so.  He  closed  the 
door  again  and  turned  toward  Connixloo. 

On  a  litter  of  nailed  branches,  they  carried  Cotton's 
body  together  as  far  as  Metsys.  There  they  laid  it 
in  the  hallowed  earth,  among  the  irises,  by  the  side 
of  Jeanne  Maers,  the  beautiful  beloved,  whom  she 
had  been  so  like.  And  Connixloo  went  to  find  the 
priest,  so  that  he  might  come  and  bless  the  grave.  The 
priest,  who  was  being  kept  as  a  hostage  in  the  town 
hall,  came  between  two  soldiers  to  recite  the  prayers 
for  the  dead. 

When  he  had  finished,  Connixloo,  straightening  his 
stiff  shoulders,  accompanied  him  to  the  gate  of  the 
cemetery.    Then  the  old  priest  tenderly  laid  his  arm 


94      THE  STORY  OF  GOTTON  CONNIXLOO 

over  his  shoulders,  and  said  to  him:  "Do  not  grieve 
too  much,  my  good  Connixloo.  The  Lord  is  merciful. 
You  see,  your  poor  Gotton,  her  head  was  not  very 
clear,  that  was  why  she  let  herself  be  led  into  error. 
But  she  was  a  girl  with  a  deep  heart." 


FORGOTTEN 


FORGOTTEN 

Mme.  Estier  was  returning  to  the  hospital  across 
the  Luxembourg.  It  was  rare  that  she  was  free  early- 
enough  to  taste  this  pleasure,  and  it  was  usual  for 
her  to  reach  the  rue  du  Fleurus  in  pitch  darkness, 
skirting  the  rails  of  the  closed  garden.  It  was  a  rosy, 
icy  evening  of  the  first  week  of  February;  the  jet  of 
water  springing  up  from  a  column  of  ice  spread 
through  the  enchanted  silence  its  crystal  tinkle.  A 
pale  blue  moon  was  mounting,  faintly  phosphorescent, 
above  the  terrace,  crowned  with  a  semi-circle  of  chest- 
nut trees.  Mme.  Estier,  enveloped  to  her  chin  in  her 
fur  jacket,  was  walking  with  a  light  step.  After  her 
day  of  jarring,  harassing  work,  she  was  advancing 
with  pink  cheeks,  her  mouth  slightly  open  and 
wreathed  with  vapor,  in  the  cold  air  which  turned 
other  faces,  less  young  than  hers,  quite  blue  and  made 
less  active  bodies  huddle  into  themselves.  She  was 
reveling  physically  in  this  hard,  pure  air  and  in  her 
own  vigor  which  her  swift  and  rhythmical  walk  was 
renewing  after  the  fatigue  of  the  day;  but  she  was 
not  paying  any  attention  to  it.  The  hospital  still  peo- 
pled her  mind.  Poor  36,  whom  she  had  nursed  for 
three  months,  was  going  to  have  an  amputation  the 
next  day:  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  about 

97 


98  FORGOTTEN 

that  leg.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  endure  the 
thought  of  the  void  there  would  be,  to-morrow,  in 
the  place  of  the  suffering  member  and  that  long 
wound  of  which  she  knew  all  the  hollows,  all  the 
colors  with  a  knowledge  that  was  intense  and  minute, 
that  wound  which  she  had  so  often  bathed,  then 
vaporized,  sometimes  three-quarters  of  an  hour  at  a 
stretch  without  taking  her  eyes  from  it,  then  cleansed 
atom  by  atom,  searched  with  long  pliers  swathed  in 
gauze,  a  light,  sensitive,  but  still  cruel  tampon  that 
made  them  both,  patient  and  attendant,  turn  pale  at 
moments — that  deep  wound  between  its  mottled  edges 
which  had  been  so  long  in  the  foreground  of  her 
daily  life,  which  she  had  uncovered  each  morning 
with  such  anxiety  and  devotion,  that  she  had  ended 
by  loving  it.  Well,  they  were  going  to  cut  all  that 
away  and  carry  it  off  with  the  knee,  the  white,  moist 
leg  with  its  sharp-edged  tibia,  the  emaciated  foot  with 
its  covering  of  rind  under  the  sole  and  heel.  .  .  . 
Mme.  Estier  walked  with  a  still  quicker,  more  im- 
petuous step.  "It's  unbelievable,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"that  I  have  never  been  able  to  get  used  to  these 
amputations." 

At  the  same  time  the  prolonged  echo  of  a  groan 
trailed  through  her  head.  Ah !  28 !  that  poor  fellow 
who  had  had  his  face  and  hands  burned  by  the  burst- 
ing of  an  incendiary  shell!  TITat  red  face,  scaly, 
swollen,  that  hair  with  its  burnt  smell,  those  great 
lips,  tough  and  leather-colored,  the  forehead  and  the 
eyes  under  bandages.     How  he  had  groaned  all  day, 


FORGOTTEN  99 

that  man!  The  sting  of  the  flames  tormented  him 
perpetually.  Every  ten  minutes  his  mouth  had  to  be 
dampened  with  fresh  water.  During  the  four  days 
that  he  had  been  there  as  if  in  a  long  nightmare,  with- 
out having  seen  anything  that  surrounded  him,  he 
had  uttered  nothing  but  lamentations:  "Ah!  Good 
God!  How  it  hurts  me !  Good  God  in  heaven !  Water, 
Madame  .  .  .  more!" 

These  heavy  wailings  of  a  virile  voice  haunt  one's 
ears. 

And  then  that  morning  there  had  been  the  de- 
parture of  32,  that  frail  little  invalid,  so  gentle,  so  tran- 
quil, whom  his  comrades  thought  a  simpleton.  He 
had  had  an  arm  and  a  leg  amputated,  that  one !  Mme. 
Estier  had  dressed  him  for  his  departure  (they  were 
sending  him  to  Lyons,  where  he  was  to  receive  his 
apparatus)  ;  she  had  drawn  on  his  one  sock,  laced 
his  boot,  adjusted  the  straps  over  his  now  uneven 
shoulders;  she  had  buttoned  the  cloak,  so  heavy  and 
stiff  and  almost  clinging,  over  this  fragile,  twice-muti- 
lated body.  From  the  cloak  hung  the  war-cross  and 
the  military  medal.  She  had  tried  several  times  to 
find  out  what  little  Brasleret  had  done  to  be  deco- 
rated, but  he  had  only  replied  with  an  air  of  embar- 
rassment: "Oh!  The  bullets  were  whistling,  and  the 
shells  w^ere  falling!" 

Once  dressed,  he  had  hopped  about  awkwardly  but 
briskly  like  a  little  wounded  bird,  going  the  round  of 
the  beds.  "Good-bye,  old  fellow,  bon  voyage !"  They 
were  very   indifferent,   his   comrades.     Then   Mme. 


100  FORGOTTEN 

Estier  had  descended  the  staircase  with  him,  carry- 
ing his  crutch,  while,  supporting  himself  on  the  ban- 
isters, he  jumped  from  step  to  step.  It  was  tiring. 
On  reaching  the  bottom  he  was  covered  with  perspira- 
tion. Twice  he  had  to  stop  to  recover  his  breath  in 
the  corridor  that  led  to  the  office  for  those  who  were 
leaving.  There,  two  comrades  were  waiting  to  be 
taken  to  the  same  train.  The  adjutant  asked,  in  a 
business-like  tone :  "You  have  received  your  money  ?" 
"Yes,'*  replied  Brasleret,  with  an  expression  of  con- 
tentment, like  a  man  who  is  testifying  that  everything 
has  been  well-managed  for  his  comfort  and  that  he 
has  nothing  to  complain  of.  "One  franc,  twenty-five. 
Good-bye,  Madame  Estier,  and  many  thanks." 

Mme.  Estier  had  said  to  herself  as  she  went  up 
again:  "I  feel  as  if  things  were  going  all  wrong 
to-day."  She  wanted  nothing  but  to  sit  down  in  a 
little  corner  of  the  cloak-room  and  weep.  But  why? 
Brasleret  was  like  that.  For  a  long  time  they  had 
known  what  Brasleret  was  like! 

The  Luxembourg  was  so  beautiful  that  when  she 
reached  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  instead  of  descending 
the  steps,  Mme.  Estier  leaned  against  the  stone  bal- 
ustrade behind  which  the  romantic  queens  of  France 
stand  in  a  line.  She  let  her  glance  rest  on  the  great 
deserted  circle  stretched  at  their  feet  between  the  two 
terraces.  The  ground  had  that  almost  invisible  hue, 
that  pale  gray,  of  very  cold  days.  The  chestnut  trees 
facing  her  interlaced  their  brown  branches  against 
the  lilac-colored  sky.     At  the  right,  the  old  plane- 


FORGOTTEN  101 

trees  rose  in  their  dishevelment  still  higher  in  the  in- 
finite of  ashy  blue.  It  was  that  mysterious  evening 
which  comes  back,  faithfully  and  stealthily,  once  each 
year  in  the  decline  of  winter,  that  buoyant  evening, 
that  transparent  evening,  which  one  recognizes  sud- 
denly like  a  perfume  and  which  makes  one  say  with 
a  delicious  astonishment:  "Ah!  how  long  the  days 
are  growing!'*  The  new  hour  conquered  from  the 
winter  night  seemed  sweet  to  the  young  woman  whose 
heart  had  lived  so  long  in  waiting  and  hope.  She 
evoked  her  husband — the  hospital  fell  away  into  an 
indifferent  remoteness.  The  absent  one  was  there; 
she  was  resting  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  She  tasted  a 
moment  of  illusion,  as  fresh  and  surprising  as  the 
odor  of  water  to  a  thirsty  man  who  leans  over  a 
well.  She  pressed  her  teeth  together  and  repeated  to 
herself  the  daily  article  of  faith  which  this  first  gray 
glimmer  of  spring  made  all  the  more  intense:  "He 
will  come  back  to  me." 

A  woman  in  mourning,  leading  a  little  boy  by  the 
hand,  appeared  at  the  side  of  the  great  plane-trees. 
The  solitude  was  so  complete  that  Mme.  Estier  at 
once  observed  the  little  group.  The  two  silhouettes, 
clearly  detached  against  the  dim  ground,  produced  in 
her  an  impression  of  melancholy.  What  a  sad,  piti- 
ful air  everyone  had  in  this  cold!  She  vaguely  fol- 
lowed them  with  her  eyes  to  the  brink  of  the  pond, 
where  they  stopped  before  the  flexible  aigrette  of 
crystal.  Then,  without  knowing  why,  Mme.  Estier 
began  to  think  of  Vouziers,  where  she  had  gone  to 


102  FORGOTTEN 

school  at  a  charming  convent,  and  of  her  school 
friend,  Denise  Huleau,  'little  Nise,"  as  they  called 
her,  who  had  become  engaged  just  after  her,  six 
months  before  the  war,  and  had  been  unable  to  marry 
before  the  war  had  imprisoned  her  at  Vouziers. 
"Poor  little  Nise,  so  odd,  so  pretty,  what  has  become 
of  her?"  With  this  reflection  Mme.  Estier  felt  the 
numbness  biting  her  feet,  and  quickly  resumed  her 
walk.  She  passed  close  to  the  pond,  frozen  save  for 
a  black  circle  in  the  middle  where  the  shower  of  the 
water-jet  was  falling.  She  walked  by  the  woman  in 
mourning,  who  was  holding  in  her  astrakhan  muff 
the  hand  of  the  little  boy.  Then  she  heard  a  frail, 
almost  crystalHne,  voice  which  was  saying:  "When 
the  pond  is  melted,  Leonard,  I  shall  give  you  a  Httle 
boat." 

Mme.  Estier  turned:  that  charming  voice  had  for 
her  such  a  familiar  sound!  She  took  several  steps 
behind  the  strolling  woman,  then,  turning  aside  a 
little,  she  tried  to  distinguish  a  profile  under  the  brim 
of  the  black  hat,  and  suddenly  she  advanced,  mur- 
muring: 

"Denise!    Is  it  possible?" 

"Oh!    Adrienne!"  cried  the  frail  voice. 

And  two  chilly  young  faces  pressed  each  other 
fervently. 

"How  long  have  you  been  back?" 

"I  was  repatriated  in  December." 

"And  you  never  told  me?" 

"Not  yet.    Don't  be  angry  with  me." 


FORGOTTEN  lOS 

And  the  big  shy  eyes  drooped. 

Adrienne  Estier  said,  quite  low,  touching  the  veil 
of  crepe: 

"I  hardly  dare  ask  you?" 

Denise  said: 

"My  brother  Max  a  year  ago,  Mamma  in  the 
autumn." 

Silently  they  embraced  each  other  again. 

Then  Mme.  Estier  asked: 

"Come  back  with  me;  it's  quite  near.  Where  are 
you  living?" 

"At  the  Hotel  Corneille." 

"At  a  hotel?  But,  Denise,  you  have  forgotten 
me!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Denise,  with  a  nervous  flutter  of  the 
eyelids.  "But  you  don't  know.  ...  I  have  been 
going  through  very  hard  things.  Please,  no  more 
this  evening;  to-morrow,  if  you  wish.  .  .  ." 

Adrienne  Estier  sought  her  friend's  eyes,  those 
great  eyes  whose  clearness  she  had  loved  since 
childhood. 

"Still  Mile.  Huleau?"  she  asked,  in  a  tender  voice. 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  second  of  silence.  Mme.  Estier  looked 
at  the  little  boy  who  had  left  his  hand  in  Mile. 
Huleau's  muff.     But  she  did  not  ask  anything  more. 

"I  am  at  the  hospital  all  day,"  she  replied.  "At  the 
best  I  get  back  at  six  o'clock.  You  must  stay  to  din- 
ner with  me.  ..." 

The  young  girl  nodded  her  head.     Mme.  Estier 


104  FORGOTTEN 

took  her  In  her  arms  and  felt  her  slight  shoulders 
tremble.  "To-morrow/*  said  Denlse  Huleau  again, 
with  a  smile  full  of  a  humble,  wounded  grace.  "How 
good  you  are !  How  happy  I  am  going  to  be  now  that 
you  have  found  me!'*  Then  she  turned  toward  the 
silent  little  boy,  smiled  at  him  also  and  led  him  after 
her,  withdrawing  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the 
Medici  Fountain. 

The  meeting  had  been  so  brief,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  evening,  that  Mme.  Estler  almost  asked  herself 
if  she  had  not  been  dreaming. 

That  night,  in  her  pretty  room,  the  room  of  a  young 
bride,  where  her  baby's  cradle  was  placed  close  to  her 
own  bed,  she  slept  badly.  The  pale  face  of  little  Nise 
appeared  before  her,  hovering,  colorless,  among  the 
dead  leaves.  It  was  in  a  wood  where  a  man  who  had 
undergone  an  amputation  was  running  on  crutches, 
wildly  seeking  his  leg.  She  awoke,  her  head  full  of 
confusion,  her  heart  knotted — and  she  thought: 
"Poor  little  Nise,  poor  darling !  Is  she  truly  alone  in 
life  now?  She  did  not  mention  him  .  .  .  something 
must  have  happened  to  him.  .  .  .  And  who  Is  that 
little  boy?"  She  had  hardly  dozed  off  again  when 
new  dreams  peopled  her  sleep  with  doleful  whisper- 
ings: there  was  Mme.  Huleau,  as  white  as  wax,  who 
was  murmuring  as  they  placed  her  in  her  coffin: 
"Take  good  care  of  Nise" ;  and  Denlse  replied,  in  an 
impatient  voice:  "Don't  say  that.  Mamma;  there  is 
no  one  left  to  take  care  of  me.     Ah,  yes!  the  two 


FORGOTTEN  105 

birches  In  the  garden.  Forgive  me,  Mamma!'*  and 
the  voice  died  away  in  a  long  sigh. 

Toward  two  o'clock  Adrienne  Estier  rose,  lighted 
her  lamp  and  went  to  open  a  little  secretary  where 
were  arranged  a  few  souvenirs  of  her  life  as  a  young 
girl.  She  took  out  an  envelope  full  of  photographs 
and  a  packet  of  letters  which  she  opened  as  soon  as  she 
had  got  back  to  bed.  They  were  the  letters  Denise 
Huleau  had  written  to  her  friend  between  her  eigh- 
teenth and  twenty- third  years  during  their  separa- 
tions in  summer  and  spring.  The  young  woman 
began  to  reread  them:  they  were  graceful  letters,  of 
a  tender,  unassuming  tone,  through  which  passed  now 
and  again  a  sort  of  shiver  of  melancholy.  Like  the 
letters  of  an  old  lady,  they  opened  almost  always  with, 
"My  pretty  one.  .  .  ." 

Adrienne  Estier  smiled  as  she  saw  this  appellation 
again.  At  the  convent  they  had  once  said,  "as  pretty 
as  Adrienne !"  She  raised  her  eyes  toward  the  mirror 
that  hung  facing  her  bed  and  looked  at  her  long, 
bright  face  with  its  delicate  features.  For  an  instant 
she  thought  of  her  husband.  *T  have  never  shown 
him  my  old  treasures,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  wonder 
if  he  would  understand?"  Then  she  became  absorbed 
for  a  long  time  in  her  photographs.  They  were  at 
first  groups  of  school-girls  under  the  lilacs  of  their 
convent.  Denise  Huleau  was  there,  always  in  the  first 
row  because  she  was  the  smallest,  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  a  bench  with  the  air  of  a  little  sprite,  her  light, 
silky  hair  ruffled  about  her  forehead,  and  such  big. 


106  FORGOTTEN 

clear,  sensitive  eyes.  ...  A  strange  little  girl,  change- 
able and  full  of  mystery!  She  was  not  pretty,  she 
was  too  pale,  with  her  rather  round  nose — an  oval 
commonplacely  designed — but  when  she  was  moved 
and  a  little  light  flush  quivered  in  her  cheeks,  she 
became  ravishing.  She  appealed  to  everyone  through 
her  animation.  There  were  days  when  people  said: 
"Look,  Nise's  eyes  are  like  fireworks !"  And  the  next 
day  they  would  say  sometimes;  "Look,  Nise  is  under 
the  ashes!" 

These  latter  days,  the  days  of  ashes,  she  was  noth- 
ing but  a  poor  little  vague  thing,  forlorn,  over- 
whelmed by  the  too  difhcult  lessons,  the  exacting 
demands  of  the  regulations,  the  teasings  of  her  com- 
panions. Adrienne  recalled  Nise,  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders sunk  under  the  lid  of  her  desk,  abandoned  to 
despair.  She  recalled  also,  how,  before  this  spas- 
modically shaken  lid,  she  had  shrugged  her  shoulders 
one  day,  and  the  sudden  shame  the  deep,  compassion- 
ate eyes  of  a  young  teacher  had  caused  her.  She  felt 
again  in  her  cheeks  the  hot  flush  of  that  moment,  and 
in  her  heart,  with  the  unexpected  confusion  of  her 
childish  pride  in  her  own  good  behavior,  the  obscure, 
poignant  perception  of  a  mystery  of  sadness  that  en- 
veloped her  little  friend.  When  she  returned  home 
she  had  asked  her  parents:  "Nise  Huleau  has  lost 
her  father,  hasn't  she?  Wasn't  it  a  long  time  ago?'* 
Later  they  had  told  her  of  the  long  agony  of  Denys 
Huleau,  paralyzed  in  the  midst  of  his  youth  by  a 
lesion  of  the  marrow  of  which  he  was  three  years 


FORGOTTEN  107 

dying.  When  Denise  had  come  into  the  world,  the 
younger  sister  of  two  boys,  the  malady  had  already 
appeared.  The  child  was  born  with  signs  of  a  sickly 
constitution,  a  sort  of  tired  eagerness.  She  did  not 
resemble  her  mother  in  any  respect,  and  judging  from 
the  portraits  which  Adrienne  had  always  seen  in  the 
Huleaus'  house,  she  did  not  resemble  her  father  either, 
though  she  had  inherited  from  him  her  rounded  fore- 
head and  her  light,  fair  hair.  In  her  days  of  reverie, 
Adrienne  had  sometimes  thought:  "She  is  like  her 
father's  illness.  She  suggests  what  this  young,  con- 
demned being,  this  infirm  lover,  must  have  felt  and 
suffered,  this  soul  which,  in  the  prison  of  a  paralyzed 
body,  had  gone  mad  at  moments  with  the  desire  to 
live."  Everyone  knew  that  the  Huleau  household  had 
been  passionately  united.  Mme.  Huleau  who,  after 
her  widowhood,  had  never  given  up  her  mourning, 
watched  with  a  somewhat  distant  and  almost  severe 
eye  the  growth  of  this  third  child.  It  was  as  if  she 
did  not  altogether  believe  that  this  odd,  sensitive  crea- 
ture was  really  her  own  child,  the  last  fruit  of  her 
youth  and  her  broken  love.  As  a  widow,  she  had 
tried  to  make  life  supportable  by  giving  herself  over 
to  devotion  and  good  works :  her  character  had  grown 
precise,  simplified  under  the  action  of  a  rigid  dis- 
cipline. She  was  a  woman  with  the  v;ill  of  a  Cornelia. 
Any  pleasure  she  experienced  came  to  her  through  her 
sons,  who  resembled  her,  and  whose  exceptional 
brilliance  in  their  studies  gave  to  her  that  element  of 
pride  which  a  woman  of  her  type  inevitably  regards 


108  FORGOTTEN 

as  her  due.  But  Denlse,  too  small,  too  nervous,  with 
her  outbursts  of  eager  desire  and  her  fits  of  despair, 
troubled  her  without  really  touching  her  heart. 

As  she  examined  these  photographs  of  the  convent, 
Mme.  Estier  in  her  mind's  eye  formed  anew  the  image 
of  her  little  comrade,  in  the  years  that  followed  the 
First  Communion.  How  touching  and  charming  she 
was,  that  pathetic  child  whose  eyes  had  such  sudden 
ardors!  Over  her  almost  transparent  temples  a  blue 
line  wandered.  Her  hair,  braided  during  the  week 
over  a  black  smock,  was  spread  out  on  Sundays  be- 
tween her  two  shoulders,  a  silken  flood,  of  a  fair  tint 
into  which  one  would  have  said  a  little  silver  had 
slipped,  and  which  shone  with  a  warm  radiance.  This 
flood,  over  her  school-girl's  dress,  was  like  the  visible 
outpouring  of  a  secret  quality  of  her  being,  the  ex- 
halation of  her  profound  sweetness.  She  had  little 
feverish  hands,  dirty,  always  warm,  scratched  by  the 
cats.  The  sensible  Adrienne  felt  such  an  attraction  for 
these  little  hands  that  often,  during  the  study  hour,  she 
would  seek  them  under  the  adjoining  desk  and  abandon 
her  own  to  them.  .  .  . 

At  sixteen,  Denise  had  been  attacked  by  typhoid 
fever  and  had  remained  a  month  in  danger.  At  the 
convent,  they  had  prayed  a  great  deal  for  her.  Now 
that  she  was  no  longer  there,  everyone  felt  the  need 
they  all  had  of  her  presence,  her  humble,  eager  charm, 
her  gentle  sweetness,  her  great  eyes  in  which  the  ordi- 
nary happenings  of  the  day  took  on  a  quite  unforeseen 
color.    When  Denise  no  longer  came,  the  lessons  in 


FORGOTTEN  109 

literature  were  no  less  interesting,  nor  the  game  of 
bases  less  lively,  nor  the  song  of  benediction  in  the 
chapel  less  devout.  But  in  the  midst  of  oneself  one 
felt  the  lack  of  something  indefinable,  as  if  the  whole 
well-tuned  series  of  the  hours  were  unrolling  itself 
over  a  depth  of  ennui.  Adrienne  recalled  how  the 
second  class  devoted  its  recreation  hours  to  reciting 
the  rosary,  under  the  acacias  in  the  garden,  for  little 
Nise's  recovery.  For  a  long  time,  the  idea  of  typhoid 
fever  had  remained  associated  in  her  mind  with  the 
odor  of  the  ripe  grapes  which  swayed  in  the  June 
breeze  above  the  procession. 

At  the  reopening  in  October,  Nise  had  come  back 
changed,  grown  tall  all  at  once,  with  short  hair  in  a 
silky  mist  on  her  head.  She  had  a  lost  look,  as  if 
her  childish  soul  could  not  accommodate  itself  to  this 
transformed,  elongated,  languid  body.  She  abandoned 
herself  to  outbursts  of  tears,  in  the  midst  of  class, 
with  none  of  the  instinct  that  grown  people  have  to 
conceal  their  troubles.  At  this  time  a  passionate  at- 
tachment she  formed  for  the  mistress  of  studies  con- 
sumed the  forces  of  her  disordered  being.  When  the 
young  Mother  Perpetua,  straight  as  a  candle,  her  head 
high  and  smiling,  her  step  invariably  calm,  came  to 
take  supervision  over  the  study  or  the  recreation  hour, 
one  saw  Denise  Huleau  flush  and  grow  troubled. 
Some  of  her  companions,  observing  her  at  these  mo- 
ments, had  felt  their  half-mocking  curiosity  trans- 
form itself  into  a  strange  emotion:  the  poor,  ravished 
face  of  little  Nise  exercised  a  sort  of  magnetism. 


110  FORGOTTEN 

Adrienne  lingered  in  the  cold,  silent  night  over  this 
evocation  of  memories,  the  warm  memories  of  her 
early  youth,  her  unfolding  time.  Beyond  the  monot- 
onous horror  of  the  hospital  and  the  tales  of  war, 
beyond  the  brutalities,  the  agonies,  the  disasters  of 
each  day  and  all  that  appalling  terror,  what  a  tender 
hght  shone  over  the  convent  of  Vouziers!  Sleepless, 
sad,  she  bent  over  another  little  image,  no  longer  a 
class  group,  but  an  amateur  photograph  taken  one 
summer  afternoon  by  a  pupil  who  had  brought  her 
kodak  for  the  recreation  hour:  it  was  Nise,  standing 
in  her  school-girl's  uniform,  her  shoulders  narrow  and 
stooping  under  the  flat  cape,  her  head  slightly  inclined 
to  one  side,  her  mouth  with  its  corners  tenderly  curved 
in,  the  little  swelling  forehead,  the  eyes  like  two  trans- 
parent springs.  "Poor  little  darling!"  thought 
Adrienne.  "What  has  the  war  done  to  you?"  And 
she  felt  the  weight  of  the  two  and  a  half  years  of 
silence  and  sorrow  which  had  just  passed  over  her 
native  town,  over  all  the  little  world  of  her  childhood 
and  her  youth,  over  her  friend.  In  contrast  with  the 
silhouette,  enigmatical  and  dressed  in  mourning, 
which  she  had  embraced  in  the  twilight,  near  the 
pond,  the  caprice  of  memory  showed  her  Nise  on  the 
night  of  a  ball  at  one  of  her  aunts'.  That  little  Nise, 
pathetic  and  awkward  as  she  had  remained  among  her 
companions,  who  had  grown  into  slim,  vigorous 
young  women,  had  danced  with  delight — and  like  a 
sylph.  The  evening  of  this  ball  she  had  appeared 
v/earing  a  gown  of  bright  poppy-red — rather  bold  for 


FORGOTTEN  111 

Vouziers,  but  that  severe  Mme.  Huleau  knew  what 
was  pretty! — from  which  her  paleness  took  fire  Hke 
a  white  flower  in  the  glow  of  noon.  She  had  danced 
indefatigably,  as  if  intoxicated,  without  self -con- 
sciousness, without  coquetry,  luminous  as  the  down 
that  floats  and  turns  in  the  air.  The  groups  of  peo- 
ple, inevitably  massed  about  the  doors,  watched  her. 
They  said:  "She's  astonishing!  a  Cinderella!"  But 
what  still  ravished  Adrienne's  memory  was  the  radi- 
ant look  which  her  little  friend  had  thrown  her  more 
than  once  over  the  shoulder  of  her  partner  when  they 
passed  one  another  in  the  eddies  of  the  waltz.  What 
an  infinity  of  trust,  what  a  power  of  loving  there  was 
in  that  look!  No  other  young  girl  had  that  light  of 
love,  no  other  was  so  unreserved — at  once  simple  and 
odd,  like  children  immensely  unconscious  by  nature, 
like  a  flower  that  unfolds  fearlessly  in  the  sun  a 
corolla  inscribed  with  a  strange  design.  The  ob- 
scurities, the  melancholy,  the  violence  of  the  age  of 
tempest  had  passed.  One  is  happier  and  calmer  at 
twenty  years  than  at  sixteen.  But  at  the  new  age, 
the  unaltered  traits  of  her  childhood  appeared  more 
purely.  One  felt  in  all  her  being  an  inalterable  sin- 
cerity, a  naivete  that  life  would  not  change,  some- 
thing humble,  impervious  to  all  pretension  and  even 
to  all  elegance,  something  aerial  and  wild,  something 
passionate.  Beside  her,  the  girls  who  were  prettier 
and  shapelier  seemed  vulgar;  their  hidden  pettinesses 
became  visible. 

Adrienne  had  reached  the  end  of  the  little  packet 


112  FORGOTTEN 

of  photographs;  she  held  the  last  one  in  her  hand 
She  had  taken  it  herself,  she  well  remembered,  in 
Mme.  Huleau's  garden,  during  one  short  visit  which 
she  had  made  at  Vouziers  on  the  return  from  her 
wedding- journey.  The  little  paper  was  still  quite 
fresh.  .  .  .  Yet,  that  spring  of  19 14,  how  far  away 
it  seemed!  Denise  was  twenty-four  years  old;  she 
had  been  engaged  for  three  months,  she  was  going  to 
be  married  in  the  autumn,  as  soon  as  her  fiance,  who 
was  instructor  of  philosophy  at  a  lycee  in  Paris,  and 
who  was  preparing  for  his  doctorate,  had  finished 
writing  his  lesser  thesis.  He  had  come  to  pass  the 
Whitsuntide  vacation  near  her.  Adrienne  had  been 
invited  to  meet  him.  They  had  had  tea  in  the  gar- 
den amid  the  perfume  of  the  syringas.  "Do  you 
know,  he  is  exquisite !"  she  had  said  to  Denise,  at  the 
turning  of  one  of  the  paths.  He  was  a  tall,  slender 
young  man,  who  had  a  beautiful  high  forehead,  a 
rather  proud  face,  gray  eyes  slightly  uneven  in  their 
deep  sockets,  a  mustache  and  a  little  golden  brown 
beard  through  which  one  saw  the  lower  lip,  delicate 
and  brightly  colored.  His  hands  were  long  and 
knotty.  He  spoke  in  a  rhythmical  voice,  slightly 
harsh,  which  sometimes  became  very  tender. 
"Denise,"  he  said,  smiling  with  the  air  of  a  man  lost 
in  an  opium-dream,  "promise  me  that  we  shall  never 
pass  Whitsuntide  anywhere  else  than  at  Vouziers!" 
He  was  a  friend  of  Max  Huleau's,  then  a  third- 
year  student  at  the  £cole  Normale.  His  name  was 
Philip  Brunei.    Denise  had  met  him  during  a  stay  in 


FORGOTTEN  113 

Paris  where  her  mother  sometimes  took  her  to  see 
her  brother.  During  the  next  visit  the  two  young 
people  had  become  engaged.  There  they  were,  to- 
gether on  that  Httle  sheet,  still  fresh  and  shining,  a 
slender  pair  in  the  dampness  of  a  June  day.  They 
had  an  unreal  look — one  could  not  have  said  why — 
she,  with  her  First  Communion  face;  he,  oh!  he, 
bizarre,  charming  enough,  with  an  expression  at  once 
voluptuous  and  absent-minded,  as  if  he  were  enjoying 
not  only  the  present  hour  but  some  far-off  transposi- 
tion of  that  hour  in  music  or  in  philosophy.  .  .  .  The 
image  evoked  for  Adrienne  the  fresh,  strong  perfumes 
of  the  Whitsuntide  and  the  nightingales  in  Mme. 
Huleau's  garden. 

She  put  the  letters  and  the  photographs  back  in 
their  envelopes,  and  laid  them  on  her  little  table;  she 
looked  at  her  baby  who,  under  his  canopy  of  blue 
muslin,  his  lips  half  open,  seemed  to  be  drawing  in 
sleep  like  milk.  For  a  second  she  thought  of  the 
mystery  of  growth,  of  the  inexorable  entanglement  of 
forces  which,  from  within  and  from  without,  impels 
each  being  to  its  destiny.  .  .  .  She  sighed,  put  out 
her  lamp,  tried  to  sleep.  But  she  had  opened  too  wide 
the  floodgate  of  memory  and  till  morning  the  ebulli- 
tion of  the  past  continued  to  whirl  across  her  sleep- 
lessness. 

H:  ^  H:  ^  H: 

The  following  day,  returning  hastily  at  six  o'clock, 
oppressed  with  sadness,  after  having  passed  the  day 
by  the  bedside  of  the  one  whose  leg  had  been  ampu- 


114  FORGOTTEN 

tated,  she  found  Denlse  awaiting  her,  seated  at  a 
corner  of  the  fireplace  in  the  drawing-room — slight, 
quiet,  provincial,  her  hands  joined  in  the  hollow  of 
her  knees. 

She  had  a  sober  air,  a  tranquil  bearing;  she  Had  be- 
come one  of  those  slight,  circumspect  young  women, 
like  many  another. 

"Denise,  my  darling!  At  last!  At  last!  You  are 
near  me !  Let  me  take  off  your  hat,  your  gloves ;  let's 
be  as  we  used  to  be  together!  You  are  cold,  aren't 
you?  This  cold  is  frightful!"  .  .  .  She  knelt  to  place 
two  logs  on  the  fire.  Then  she  took  from  the  hands 
of  the  young  girl  the  black  hat  and  the  crepe  veil. 
"Oh!  this  black!"  she  said.  "Oh!  Denise,  how  sorry 
I  am  to  meet  you  again  this  way!"  She  ran  to  put 
the  hat  away  and  take  ofif  her  own  in  the  vestibule. 
"Oh!  you,  you!"  she  murmured,  as  she  clasped  her 
friend.  It  seemed  as  if  she  was  embracing  her  own 
youth  and  the  bruised  image  of  the  tendernesses  and 
the  sweetness  of  other  days.  "How  thin  you  are! 
And  you  haven't  told  me  anything!  You  break  my 
heart.  .  .  .  Heavens,  how  you  have  suffered!  .  .  ." 

The  tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  Adrienne  Estier 
as  she  held  between  her  hands  the  emaciated  face,  with 
its  pale,  chapped  lips,  in  which  the  eyes  shone  with  an 
unearthly  light,  like  two  solitary  stars  in  a  cold  sky. 

"And  you?"  asked  Denise.  "One  fears  to  tell  one's 
own  story  and  one  fears  to  ask  questions,  isn't  it  so  ?" 

*'I?"  replied  Adrienne,  "I'm  one  of  the  privileged 
ones.    I  still  have  my  husband,  I  have  a  child.    And 


FORGOTTEN  115 

yet  I  live  in  such  anguish  that,  at  moments,  it  seems 
to  me  I  would  rather  be  dead." 

"Oh!"  said  Denise,  "You  have  a  child!" 

"Yes,  let  me  show  him  to  you,  may  I?  I  should 
love  to  see  him  in  your  arms." 

She  disappeared  and  came  back  at  once,  bearing  in 
her  arms  a  plump  baby  which  she  placed  on  the  knees 
of  Denise.  She  herself  crouched  at  one  side,  placing 
her  cheek  against  that  of  the  child. 

"How  pretty  he  is !"  said  Denise.    "How  old  is  he  ?" 

"Almost  a  year.  My  husband  was  wounded  in 
Artois  in  the  spring  of  191 5.  I  had  him  with  me 
during  one  month  of  convalescence — ^he  left  me  this 
little  monster  to  keep  me  company,  so  that  I  shouldn't 
wither  away  in  grief  and  impatience.  Isn't  it  so,  Ray- 
mond?   Isn't  it  so,  my  poor  darling?" 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  and  rounded  her 
pretty  little  mouth.  The  child  looked  Denise  up  and 
down  with  an  intense,  black  stare. 

"Oh !"  said  she.  "How  he  looks  at  me,  how  serious 
he  is!"  And  she  hugged  him  impulsively,  with  an 
almost  savage  movement. 

"Does  he  look  like  his  father?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  very  much." 

*T  frighten  him,  he's  going  to  cry,"  said  Denise, 
brusquely.    "Come,  take  him  back." 

Adrienne  took  him  in  her  arms  and  went  out,  rock- 
ing him. 

"There,"  she  said,  as  she  came  back.     "I've  given 


116  FORGOTTEN 

him  to  the  nurse.    I  want  to  have  you  all  to  myself. 
Denise,  how  are  things  at  home?'* 

"At  home?  It's  like  being  in  a  prison,  and  for 
many  of  the  poor  people  it's  like  the  hulks.  Those 
who  are  forced  to  work  for  the  enemy!  I  think  you 
know  in  Paris  that  there  have  been  martyrs  down 
there?  Boys  whom  they  fasten  to  posts,  outside  the 
town,  quite  naked,  day  after  day,  because  they  refuse 
to  work.  They  are  fastened  with  barbed  wire — they 
bleed  in  the  cold,  in  winter,  and  in  summer  in  the 
blazing  sun,  stung  by  the  gadflies.  One  day  they 
brought  one  back  to  us  in  Vouziers  delirious,  who 
had  had  a  sunstroke.  There  are  some  who  give  in; 
I  have  seen  them  going  by  in  a  file,  their  heads  low- 
ered, pickaxes  on  their  shoulders.  We  knew  they 
were  taking  them  to  the  trenches.  You  remember 
that  little  Julian  whom  we  liked  so  much,  our  gar- 
dener's son?    He  went.  .  .  ." 

"My  God,  Denise!  but  it's  horrible!" 
"Oh,  yes!  Oh!  It's  an  abomination  every  day. 
Those  people  would  trample  on  Christ  crucified.  They 
destroy  everything  that  we  love.  Our  forests,  think 
of  it,  the  forests  of  our  country,  are  all  cut  down; 
we  have  seen  them  going  by  on  drays  under  our  win- 
dows. They,  too,  they  are  going  to  the  trenches !  To 
cut  them  down  they  make  use  of  the  Belgian  and 
Russian  prisoners,  whom  they  allowed  to  perish  of 
hunger.  Everything  is  a  machine  with  them.  They 
themselves  act  like  parts  of  an  enormous  machine. 
The  most  astonishing  thing  is  that,  taken  by  them- 


FORGOTTEN  117 

selves,  the  soldiers  are  often  not  bad.  But  they  are 
parts  of  the  machine,  and  that  makes  everything  pos- 
sible. Imagine  it,  our  old  forests  shorn  by  these 
troops  of  starving  men!  Our  people  gladly  share 
their  bread  with  those  poor  fellows.  It's  a  horror, 
you  know,  to  see  people  suffering  from  hunger; 
they  take  on  frightful  expressions  that  leave  you 
unable  to  rest — especially  those  Russians  whom  we 
don't  understand  and  who  have  nothing  but  their 
look!  The  Germans  forbid  anyone  to  give  them  any- 
thing whatever:  for  a  morsel  of  bread  offered  to  a 
prisoner  one  pays  a  fine — ^big  enough  for  one  to  be 
unable  to  try  it  often!  And  then  there  have  been 
those  deportations  of  young  girls  for  work  in  the 
fields.  The  newspapers  here  have  spoken  of  them, 
haven't  they?  They  came  to  our  house  to  see  if  we 
had  anyone  they  could  take.  They  left  me  because 
of  Mamma,  who  was  so  ill.  However,  I  believe  in 
any  case  they  wouldn't  have  found  me  robust  enough 
— but  plenty  of  others  have  gone!  That  was  last 
summer ;  since  then,  their  families  have  received  news 
from  them  two  or  three  times,  no  more,  and  no  one 
know  how  they  are  treated,  the  poor  creatures,  nor 
when  they  will  come  back." 

"And  the  town?"  asked  Adrienne.  "Has  anything 
been  destroyed  there?'* 

**No,  but  little  by  little  the  houses  end  by  being 
empty.  The  soldiers  never  steal  anything,  except 
vegetables  when  they  have  had  a  poor  dinner  and 
when  they  find  a  way  to  climb  over  the  wall  of  a 


118  FORGOTTEN 

kitchen  garden.  But  the  Kommandatur  constantly 
sends  a  squad  to  you,  commanded  by  an  officer,  to 
carry  off,  one  day  some  chairs,  one  day  some  sheets, 
one  day  your  piano,  one  day  your  kitchen  utensils.  .  .  . 
Ah!  what  pedants  they  are!  .  .  .  How  sordid  they 
are!  .  .  .  The  day  when  I  saw  a  Boche  opening  my 
bed  to  count  my  bed-clothes,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  tear 
his  eyes  out.  He  was  going  to  do  the  same  thing  with 
the  bed  of  poor  Mamma,  who  was  so  ill!  But  that 
I  put  a  stop  to." 

A  heavy  silence  fell  between  them.  The  weight  of 
the  oppression  had  humbled  their  hearts. 

Adrienne  murmured,  "Dear,  tell  me  about  your- 
self!" 

Denise  was  bent  forward  in  her  low  chair,  her  chin 
propped  on  her  two  clenched  hands,  her  pale  face 
turned  toward  the  fire. 

"Ah!  she  replied.  "Forgive  me!  One  grows  so 
accustomed  to  suffering  alone.  And  so  many  things 
have  happened  to  me!  I  no  longer  know  myself. 
Mamma  fell  ill  in  the  summer  of  191 5.  Till  then, 
during  the  first  year,  she  had  been  occupied  with 
nothing  but  charity.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  do: 
since  the  first  winter  our  poor  had  been  without 
clothes;  and  then  there  were  sick  people  to  care  for: 
they  could  hardly  ever  be  taken  to  the  hospital,  which 
was  always  full  of  Germans.  As  for  me,  I  went 
about  everywhere  with  Mamma.  I  could  not  stay 
alone  any  longer,  I  don^t  know  how  I  would  have 
passed  two  hours  without  her,     I  had  lost  my  sleep: 


FORGOTTEN  119 

without  news  of  Philip,  without  news  of  my  brothers, 
I  was  desperate.  And  Mamma  was  so  good  for  me, 
she  kept  me  up,  I  never  left  her.  And  you  know 
how  absent-minded  and  awkward  I  am  and  how  much 
patience  one  has  to  have  to  do  things  with  me! 

"Although  Mamma  never  complained,  I  saw  that 
she  was  looking  badly.  I  thought  that  she  was  doing 
too  much,  that  she  needed  rest.  But  she  had  made 
herself  necessary  to  a  great  many  people,  and  both 
of  us,  when  we  had  passed  a  day  without  seeing  our 
poor,  were  too  sad.  As  for  me,  as  you  may  imagine, 
the  idea  that  I  might  have  been  married  in  the  week 
of  mobilization,  might  have  been  in  Paris  with  Philip, 
where  Mamma  would  surely  have  come  to  rejoin  me 
before  the  invasion;  that  I  might  have  had  news  of 
him,  seen  him  sometimes,  perhaps,  nursed  him  if  he 
were  wounded,  wept  for  him  if  he  were  dead;  it  was 
the  torment  of  regret,  added  to  that  of  absence  and 
anxiety.  I  was  consumed.  At  the  beginning,  I  spoke 
all  the  time  about  my  grief  to  Mamma.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  that  she  did  not  care  for  Philip  very  much  and 
that  she  did  not  really  regret  my  not  being  married. 
After  that,  I  no  longer  spoke  to  her  about  him. 

*'It  was  on  the  twelfth  of  July,  in  the  morning,  that 
our  old  Danielle  came  into  my  room  while  I  was  dress- 
ing and  with  an  agitated  face  told  me  that  Mamma 
was  ill.  I  ran  to  Mamma,  who  was  in  bed,  very  pale, 
her  features  drawn;  she  told  me  not  to  be  anxious, 
but  to  go  to  the  hospital  with  Danielle  and  ask  for 
a  doctor.     We  knew  slightly   a   young  major  from 


120  FORGOTTEN 

whom  Mamma  had  sometimes  obtained  a  visit  for 
one  of  the  poor  people  who  was  ill. 

'1  went  there.  The  major  came  at  noon  when  he 
left  the  hospital.  Mamma  wished  to  receive  him 
alone.  He  went  out  saying  that  he  would  return  the 
following  day,  and  Mamma  gave  me  no  explanation 
that  day,  the  whole  of  which  I  passed  beside  her. 
The  next  day,  when  she  had  seen  the  major  again,  she 
told  me  that  it  was  cancer  of  the  breast.  She  had 
allowed  it  to  develop  in  secret  for  two  months;  there 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  She  was  absolutely  calm. 
She  said  to  me:  Tt  is  a  long  illness;  I  hope  I  shall 
see  your  brothers  again.'  As  for  me,  alas!  I  could 
not  contain  myself;  I  sobbed  like  a  simpleton.  That 
displeased  her.  She  assumed  again  that  severe  ex- 
pression which  used  to  intimidate  me  when  I  was 
little.  I  cannot  imagine  a  saint  going  to  his  martyr- 
dom with  more  strength  and  majesty.  And  yet  she 
had  taken  me  to  see  people  who  had  that  disease,  and 
we  both  of  us  knew  what  it  meant.  She  still  went  out 
at  times,  and  she  got  up  every  day,  right  up  to  the 
middle  of  November.  At  that  time  a  terrible  blow 
shattered  her  strength.  We  received  a  letter  from 
Jean,  who  had  just  been  made  a  prisoner  and  who 
announced  to  us  the  death  of  Max. 

"My  poor  Mamma!  One  can't  speak  of  those 
things !  Max  had  been  killed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  at  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 

"Jean  said  also;  T  received  word  from  Philip  a 


FORGOTTEN  121 

month  before  I  was  taken.    He  was  at  the  front  and 
getting  along  well/ 

"We  began  a  sinister  winter.  Mamma  suffered  a 
great  deal.  ThL  diet  to  which  everybody  was  reduced 
down  there  did  not  agree  with  her  and  she  wasted 
away.  We  had  nothing  for  lighting  the  house.  The 
first  year  there  was  a  little  petrol  left  in  the  town,  but 
from  the  beginning  of  the  second  winter  there  was 
no  more  to  be  found.  Not  a  drop  of  oil  any  more. 
Candles  were  so  expensive  that  they  had  to  be  used 
most  sparingly;  we  burned  a  little  lard  in  the  lamps, 
but  lard  we  had  to  deduct  from  our  ration,  which 
was  quite  fair,  and  it  was  sometimes  a  choice  between 
nourishment  and  light.  Ah!  that  little  wick  in  that 
great  room!  Mamma  made  me  place  it,  now  under 
the  portrait  of  my  father,  now  under  the  portrait  of 
Max.  After  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  lived 
as  if  in  a  tomb.  On  good  days  Mamma  would  ask 
me  to  read  to  her.  I  would  sit  down  close  to  the  light 
and  from  there  I  would  faintly  see  her,  so  pale  on 
her  pillow,  her  eyes  wide  open  like  two  still  black 
holes  in  the  depth  of  that  shadow.  She  sent  me  to 
look  for  books  on  the  shelves  of  my  father's  room, 
where  we  had  never  changed  anything,  as  you  may 
remember,  the  books  which  she  had  read  to  him  dur- 
ing his  illness.  There  were  some  works  on  Roman 
history;  I  wondered  how  they  could  interest  her.  I 
would  have  so  liked  to  read  to  her  the  books  that 
Philip  had  given  to  me,  the  new  books  that  had  so 
deeply  interested  Philip  and  Max — written  by  their 


12?  FORGOTTEN 

professors.  But  I  was  too  timid  to  suggest  it  to  her. 
,  .  .  When  the  pain  was  too  great,  we  did  not  read; 
I  knitted,  always  close  to  the  night-lamp,  but  often 
without  seeing  anything,  and  my  tears  would  fall  on 
my  work.  In  spite  of  all  her  strength  of  soul,  Mamma 
groaned  sometimes.  .  .  . 

"The  evenings  when  she  let  me  bring  the  little  lamp 
close  to  her,  it  calmed  me  to  see  her  face.  I  would 
have  then  a  sort  of  hour  of  anaesthesia,  between  the 
gray  day  which  one  hardly  dragged  oneself  through 
and  the  sleepless  night  that  consumed  one.  That  face 
of  Mamma's,  afflicting  as  it  was,  seemed  to  me  so 
beautiful,  so  dear,  in  its  aureole  amid  the  shadows, 
set  off  from  everything  that  did  not  belong  to  it. 
In  spite  of  the  immense  respect  which  Mamma  in- 
spired in  me,  I  felt  something  miserly  in  me  which 
closed  about  the  possession  of  her  face;  it  was  for 
me,  that  face,  for  my  eyes,  for  my  love.  But  the 
evenings  when  she  did  not  wish  me  to  be  near  her,  or 
when  she  wished  not  to  have  any  light,  or  the  nights 
when  she  would  groan  in  a  smothered  voice,  in  the 
depths  of  that  room,  which  seemed  to  me  as  big  and 
black  as  a  church,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  an  infinite 
sadness.  Then  I  formed  the  habit  of  thinking  of 
Philip  as  it  he  were  there,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and 
later  as  if  he  were  nearer  still,  just  b}  my  side,  I  made 
him  sit  in  the  room,  I  knew  to  which  side  I  should 
hare  to  turn  my  head  to  see  him,  or  hold  out  my 
hand  to  touch  him.  This  gave  me  strength,  and  some- 
times became  a  sort  of  ecstasy.    I'll  tell  you  a  strange 


FORGOTTEN  123 

thing,  Adrienne:  since  the  letter  of  Jean's  which  an- 
nounced to  us  at  the  same  time  that  Max  was  dead 
and  that  Phihp,  in  the  month  of  October,  191 5,  was 
well  and  safe,  I  never  again  thought  of  the  possi- 
bility that  Philip  might  be  killed.  At  least,  I  thought 
of  it;  but  the  idea  had  no  reality  for  me;  it  did  not 
even  move  me  any  more,  after  having  tortured  me  the 
first  year.  It  seemed  to  me  that  destiny  had  been  put 
to  the  proof,  that  it  had  given  a  sure  response.  It  was 
settled.  I  thought  more  and  more  of  my  future  and 
I  surrendered  myself  to  a  dream-life  that  unfolded 
during  those  interminable  dark  hours  of  that  winter 
and  was  for  me  a  sort  of  philter,  giving  mc  the 
strength  to  endure  another. 

"Mamma  was  cared  for  by  the  German  major,  that 
little  Dr.  Lucius  Gottfried,  who  had  made  the  diag- 
nosis of  her  disease.  He  came  to  the  house  every 
fifth  or  sixth  day,  at  noon,  when  he  was  finished  with 
his  regular  duties,  always  in  uniform,  smelling  of 
ether  and  carbolic  acid.  He  was  a  little  man,  too 
weakly  to  be  good  for  service  at  the  front,  a  very 
young  man,  blond  and  bearded,  slightly  round- 
shouldered,  with  a  nervous  face  and  blinking  eyes. 
We  always  found  him  attentive  and  very  polite.  He 
had  a  great  admiration  for  Mamma  because  of  her 
calmness  and  her  courage.  He  sometimes  said  to  me, 
as  he  came  out  of  her  room:  *Sie  1st  doch  wunder- 
bar,  die  gnadige  Frau!'  Sometimes  he  saw  me  cry- 
ing; then  he  would  look  at  me  with  a  distressed  air, 
bowing  and  shaking  his  head,  saying  over  and  over: 


124  FORGOTTEN 

'Ach,  Fraulein,  ich  weiss;  es  ist  schrecklich  !*  This 
terrible  disease  impressed  him  a  great  deal;  he  had 
seen  someone  of  his  own  family — an  aunt  who  had 
brought  him  up,  he  told  me — die  this  way. 

*'He  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  us 
morphine,  which  was  not  easy.  The  druggists  did 
not  sell  it  any  more,  and  there  were  many  weeks 
when  we  were  without  it.  What  weeks!  The 
nervous  strain  was  worse  than  the  suffering.  There 
wasn't  a  moment  of  respite!  Her  face  was  drawn, 
her  hands  twitched  the  bed-clothes.  I  passed  days 
and  days  hoping  for  the  moment  when  I  would  see 
her  smile  come  back !  Her  eyes  became  hollow,  pale ; 
they  had  taken  on  a  dim  transparency.  After  the 
great  crises  they  looked  at  me  as  if  they  were  no 
longer  the  eyes  of  Mamma.  I  experienced  an  un- 
utterable anguish. 

"The  little  major  had  told  us,  Danielle  and  me, 
how  the  dressings  must  be  made.  I  was  always  on 
hand  to  help  with  them,  but  I  was  not  able  to  make 
them  myself.  Mamma  knew  very  well  that  I  did 
not  have  the  courage,  and  that  displeased  her  so 
much!  But  she  spared  me,  she  was  indulgent!  Dur- 
ing the  dressings,  she  said  nothing;  she  kept  her  eyes 
closed  and  held  under  her  nostrils  a  little  handker- 
chief dipped  in  lavender  water,  for  the  odor  was 
terrible.  It  is  a  suffering  for  which  one  can  never 
find  a  word.  When  she  had  finished,  Danielle's  fore- 
head was  often  drenched  with  perspiration. 

"How  can  I  tell  you  any  more,  my  friend?    How 


FORGOTTEN  125 

can  I  picture  for  you  the  slowness  of  those  months! 
The  winter  passed :  it  was  an  eternity.  In  the  spring, 
it  was  a  little  better.  Mamma  was  able  to  come 
down  every  da}  to  the  garden;  I  installed  her  there 
in  her  long  chair;  she  saw  the  lilacs,  the  cytisuses 
blossoming.  The  freshness  and  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers  gave  her  pleasure;  she  was  astonished  at  her- 
self. The  poor  people,  to  whom  she  could  not  go 
any  more,  came  to  her;  they  brought  her  their  little 
children;  she  distributed  the  clothes  which  we  had 
sewed  and  knitted,  Danielle  and  I,  during  the  winter. 
As  for  me,  I  never  went  out  any  more;  I  saw  no 
more  Boche  soldiers  except  on  the  days  when  they 
came  to  our  house  with  some  requisition.  When  I 
was  sitting  near  Mamma,  dozing  under  our  old  trees, 
through  which  the  sun  filtered,  the  sadness  of  the 
war  grew  dim.  .  .  .  Often,  after  long  meditation. 
Mamma  would  speak  to  me  about  my  father,  some- 
times as  if  he  had  died  only  the  year  before.  I 
realized  that  hers  was  a  life  of  memory  as  mine  was 
a  life  of  hope.  The  complete  absence  of  news,  the 
lack  of  any  communication  with  the  outside  world 
more  and  more  effaced  the  present,  and  Mamma  quite 
naturally  slipped  into  the  past  among  the  things  of 
which  she  had  thought  all  her  life  without  speaking 
of  them  to  us.  Often  I  had  the  impression  that  she 
had  forgotten  me,  even  while  she  was  talking  to  me; 
she  would  speak  as  if  I  had  known  her  whole  past, 
she  alluded  to  events  of  which  I  knew  nothing.  We 
never  spoke  of  the  future  or  of  Philip.    I  was  silent 


126  FORGOTTEN 

about  him  because,  face  to  face  with  her,  I  was 
ashamed  to  think  of  him  too  much,  to  live  too  much 
in  the  depths  of  my  heart,  perpetually  in  her  presence 
as  I  was.  I  knew  from  that  time  on  that  Mamma 
would  never  see  him  again — or  Jean — and  that  if  I 
was  going  to  be  happy,  it  would  be  far  from  her, 
after  she  had  reached  the  very  end  of  her  Calvary. 
...  I  felt  I  must  conceal  all  this  from  her. 

"J^an  wrote  to  us  regularly  each  week;  I  wrote 
to  him  just  as  often,  and  so  we  shared  the  dreary 
life  of  the  prisoners.  Toward  the  end  of  June,  a 
word,  very  cleverly  disguised,  from  one  of  his  com- 
rades whom  we  did  not  know,  but  whom  he  had  often 
mentioned  in  his  letters  to  us,  gave  us  to  understand 
that  he  had  escaped  several  days  before  and  that 
there  were  reasons  to  believe  that  his  attempt  would 
be  successful.  After  that,  we  received  no  more  news. 
Mamma,  who  was  proud  of  this  feat,  but  who  showed 
that  she  was  in  terrible  distress  over  it,  became  much 
worse.  I  had  asked  Jean  to  keep  in  communication 
with  Philip,  if  possible,  and  to  forward  the  news  to 
me.  Twice  during  the  winter  he  had  written: 
Thilip  is  all  right  !*  After  his  escape  the  only  thread 
that  attached  me  to  the  visible  existence  of  my  fiance 
was  broken.  I  no  longer  had  any  contact  with  Philip 
except  the  invisible  one.  I  went  on  living  in  the 
hourly  evocation  of  him. 

"The  summer  was  very  hard:  the  crises  of  suffer- 
ing became  more  cruel  than  ever;  Mamma  was  truly 
being  consumed  by  her  cancer,  which  was  growing 


FORGOTTEN  127 

in  a  frightful  way.  She  had  now  all  the  time  that 
ghastly  look  of  which  I  have  already  told  you,  that 
lock  in  which  I  could  no  longer  recognize  her  per- 
sonality: a  cold,  anxious  look  that  seemed  to  be 
coming  from  some  other  soul.  It  will  surprise  you, 
perhaps,  but  I  assure  you  that  of  all  I  suffered  from 
Mamma's  illness,  the  most  insupportable  thing  was  to 
see  her  with  that  look. 

"Toward  the  middle  of  September,  there  was  a 
sudden  change  and,  although  the  suffering  was  allevi- 
ated, I  realized  that  she  was  much  worse.  Major 
Gottfried  told  me  that  the  end  was  near.  She  had 
one  last  grief:  it  was  about  that  time  that  poor  little 
Julian,  as  I  told  you  a  few  minutes  ago,  after  having 
been  fastened  to  a  post  for  two  days,  went  to  work 
in  the  German  trenches.  She  knew  about  it,  and  I 
saw  expressed  on  her  face  a  degree  of  sorrow  that 
invited  death.  She  did  not  suffer  any  more,  except 
at  intervals;  but  she  was  very  weak  and  almost  un- 
recognizable. I  passed  the  whole  of  every  day  beside 
her  bed  in  an  oppression  which  I  relieved  by  pro- 
nouncing the  name  of  my  fiance.  Sometimes  for 
hours  she  would  lie  motionless,  not  asking  me  for 
anything.  I  did  not  know  whether  she  was  sleeping 
or  whether  she  was  absorbed  in  her  thoughts.  The 
depth  of  the  cavities  of  her  eyes  was  terrible  to  see. 
Once,  opening  her  poor  eyes,  which  were  never  en- 
tirely closed,  she  said  to  me,  after  one  of  these  pro- 
found silences:  *Don't  weep  for  me,  my  child.  I 
have  suffered  a  great  deal,  but  I  have  reached  the 


128  FORGOTTEN  / 

end.  One  cannot  regret  having  suffered/  And  then 
she  added,  after  being  silent  a  moment: 

"  *No,  I  regret  nothing,  neither  my  widowhood, 
which  desolated  my  youth,  nor  the  death  of  my  son 
whom  I  have  given  to  France,  nor  this  illness  that 
has  made  me  die  as  cruelly  as  your  poor  father.  I 
want  to  tell  you  this  so  that  you  may  recall  it  when 
your  own  trials  come.  Life  is  hard  but  it  is  the 
road  to  God/  The  power  of  expression  failed  her, 
but  her  thoughts  went  on  in  the  failure  of  her  forces 
and  she  repeated  over  and  over  again  confusedly, 
*the  road,  the  road  ...  it  is  worth  the  pain !' 

"She  rarely  spoke  to  me  of  God,  and  I  had  not 
suspected  this  concentration  of  religious  thought 
which  revealed  itself  in  her  words.  She  was  so 
strong,  Mamma,  and  so  solitary.     Max  was  like  her. 

"In  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  she  said  to  me: 
'Nise,  you  will  be  very  lonely  here  when  I  am  no 
longer  with  you.  You  must  have  yourself  re- 
patriated. The  doctor  has  promised  me  to  help  you 
with  the  application  and  to  give  you  a  recommenda- 
tion himself.  If  you  can  find  your  fiance  again,  all 
will  be  well,  and  you  have  reason  to  hope  that  you 
will  find  him.'  As  I  wept,  without  being  able  to  reply 
to  her,  she  stroked  my  hand  gently,  saying:  Toor 
little  girl.  .  .  .  It's  a  long  time,  twc  years  of  youth. 
.  .  .  I  know.  ...  I  know.  .  .  .  It's  very  long.  I 
would  not  wish  you  to  lose  one  more !' 

"Her  voice  was  indulgent;  she  caressed  me  as  if 
I  were  a  little  lost  kitten  beside  her.    It's  unbelievable 


FORGOTTENj  129 

that,  having  loved  Mamma  as  I  loved  her,  I  should 
have  felt  all  the  time  so  far  from  her  soul. 

"Two  days  later  she  asked  for  the  priest.  It  was 
the  old  cure  of  our  parish  who  came  to  see  her.  She 
remained  for  a  long  time  alone  with  him,  then  he 
came  to  look  for  me  and  told  me  to  prepare  the  room 
for  the  Extreme  Unction.  Mamma  wished  me  to  go 
and  call  our  two  old  cousins,  who  came  to  see  us 
regularly  on  Sundays  on  their  way  home  from  ves- 
pers to  ask  for  news  of  her,  and  whom  she  had  not 
received  for  three  months.  I  sent  Danielle  to  find 
them.  They  arrived  together,  Cousin  Agatha  and 
Cousin  Rose ;  they  entered  the  room  timidly.  Mamma 
had  always  rather  impressed  them.  Mamma  made 
them  a  sign  with  her  hand  to  kneel  down,  and  then 
the  ceremony  began.  Mamma's  energy  dominated  us 
to  such  a  degree  that  none  of  us  wept.  I  felt  in  my 
heart  a  strength  that  came  entirely  from  her.  When 
it  was  ended,  she  called  my  cousins  and  drew  them, 
one  after  the  other,  to  the  bed  to  embrace  them.  She 
said:  *Adieu,  my  good  friends,  thank  you  for  your 
affection.' 

"Cousin  Agatha  said:  *Don't  be  anxious  about 
Nise.'  But  Mamma  did  not  wish  that  I  should  go 
to  live  with  my  cousins — 'shadows  and  shadows  of 
shadows,'  as  she  had  once  called  them,  with  the  sad 
and  slightly  cold  irony  of  her  smile.  She  replied 
shortly:  T  confide  her  to  the  good  God.  She  is  go- 
ing to  try  to  go  to  Paris  to  find  her  fiance  again.* 

"It  was  the  next  day,  toward  five  o'clock  in  the 


180  FORGOTTEN 

afternoon,  that  I  lost  Mamma.  During  the  whole  of 
the  last  day,  she  had  said  scarcely  anything  more,  but 
when  I  knelt  down  close  to  her  her  hand  blessed  me. 
Her  last  hour  was  very  calm,  and  I  had  the  consola- 
tion of  seeing  her  delivered  from  her  suffering  before 
she  had  left  her  body.  As  soon  as  she  had  taken  her 
last  breath,  her  features  fixed  themselves  in  a  beauty 
that  was  almost  terrible.  She  did  not  have  that 
strange  look  that  had  given  me  such  anguish — no,  she 
was  herself,  magnificent  and  intelligible.  Her  face 
expressed  the  whole  quality  of  her  life,  with  a  pride, 
a  sadness,  a  severity,  a  peace  that  amazed  and  almost 
chilled  me.  I  stayed  near  her  till  midnight.  One  last 
time  I  placed  the  little  candle  at  the  head  of  the  bed 
to  gaze  upon  her  in  the  melancholy  light  of  so  many 
vigils — in  a  contemplation  which  I  would  have  wished 
to  remain  with  me  beyond  that  hour,  to  the  very  end 
of  my  life. 

"At  midnight,  Danielle,  her  eyes  red  with  tears, 
came  to  replace  me  at  our  prie-dieu,  and  I  went  into 
my  room.  My  head  was  dizzy;  I  needed  air.  I 
opened  the  window  and  went  out  on  the  balcony. 
Adrienne,  how  can  I  tell  you  about  that  hour,  the 
shame  of  my  life?  I  breathed  as  one  drinks  when 
one  is  perishing  of  thirst.  It  had  rained  during  the 
day ;  the  air  was  light,  cleansed.  A  damp  and  slightly 
bitter  odor  sprang  up  from  the  dead  leaves  and  the 
ivy  and  from  the  last  roses  that  hung  from  the  rail- 
ing of  the  balcony.  In  an  abyss  of  pure  blue  I  saw 
the    stars    shining    through    the    already    quite    thin 


FORGOTTEN  131 

foliage  of  the  birches.  They  seemed  large  and 
quivering  like  hearts  of  light.  It  was  as  many  as 
fifteen  days  since  I  had  even  been  down  to  the 
garden,  and  this  silence,  this  fresh  depth  of  the  night, 
pierced  my  soul.  What  clear,  sparkling,  solemn 
beauty!  What  a  peace  that  fairly  forces  itselY  upon 
you  comes  from  those  distant  stars!  And,  in  the 
midst  of  this  peace,  the  soul  sends  forth  as  it  were 
a  note  of  music,  simple,  primitive,  and  of  a  single 
tone,  like  the  cry  of  the  curlews  which  I  have  heard 
on  the  coast  of  Brittany  on  nights  when  the  moon 
is  full.  A  note  one  cannot  stifle!  I  thought  of 
Philip.  I  thought  of  myself  going  away,  living  again 
in  the  free  country  where  he  was  a  soldier — and  this 
one  idea  of  finding  him,  alive,  real,  after  having  for 
two  years  embraced  his  phantom,  intoxicated  me.  At 
first  it  was  only  a  very  sweet  feeling  of  certainty; 
faint  breaths  of  air  passed  across  my  forehead  and 
made  me  tremble,  like  promises  of  everything  my 
heart  had  so  long  needed.  But  the  more  I  became 
absorbed  in  the  thought  of  Philip,  the  more  my  eager- 
ness grew.  All  my  grief,  all  the  weight  of  two  years 
of  suffering,  privation,  waiting,  mourning,  the  terrible 
anguish  at  Mamma's  bedside,  all  this  was  changed 
into  a  desire  for  happiness  that  struggled  in  my 
breast.  It  was  a  fever,  an  indescribable  transport! 
Already  almost  a  foretaste,  almost  the  savor  of  the 
joy  of  the  lips!  It's  monstrous,  isn't  it?  That  even- 
ing, that  sacred  evening!  All  of  a  sudden  I  was 
ashamed,  I  tried  to  subdue  that  frenzy,  I  left  the 


132  FORGOTTEN 

balcony;  but  I  did  not  dare  to  go  back  to  the  room 
where  Danielle  was  watching  beside  the  bed;  I  knelt 
down  beside  the  door;  I  held  my  ungrateful  head 
there  and  then  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  where  I 
remained  trembling  till  morning.  I  believe  it's  nec- 
essary for  me  to  tell  you  this,  my  friend,  so  that  you 
may  understand  my  life  as  I  understand  it  now  my- 
self. 

"Ne6ct,  I  must  tell  you  how  I  immediately  took  the 
necessary  steps  to  have  myself  repatriated,  with 
Danielle,  and  how  we  succeeded,  thanks  to  the  help 
of  Dr.  Gottfried.  Till  December  we  awaited  week 
by  week  the  word  for  us  to  go.  I  lived  in  a  double 
dream  between  Mamma  and  Philip.  I  can  remem- 
ber scarcely  anything  of  that  time. 

"When  we  left  Vouziers — there  were  a  hundred 
people  or  so  in  a  little  local  train — a  non-commis- 
sioned officer  at  the  last  minute  opened  the  door  of 
the  compartment  where  I  was  sitting  with  Danielle 
and,  quickly  picking  up  a  child  who  was  standing  on 
the  platform,  raised  it  toward  us.  'Orphan,'  fie  said 
in  French,  before  closing  the  door;  'no  business  here. 
In  France,  in  France  .  .  .*  It  was  a  boy  of  six  years, 
dark  and  frail.  He  had  a  stupefied,  passive,  mortally 
sad  expression.  All  the  places  on  both  seats  were 
occupied;  but  I  am  not  large  and  I  made  room  for 
him  beside  me.  I  looked  at  the  label  which  they  had 
hung  at  his  neck.  His  name,  Leonard  Seulin,  was 
written  on  it,  with  the  word,  Orphan. 

"The  first  journey  lasted  eight  hours.    It  was  night 


FORGOTTEN  133 

when  we  arrived  at  a  village  near  which  had  been 
erected  some  great  plank  barracks  where  we  were 
to  be  installed.  There  w^as  fresh  straw  inside.  They 
had  warned  us  that  each  must  bring  his  own  blankets, 
and  I  learned  what  it  is  to  sleep  as  a  soldier  does. 
We  were  in  quarantine  and  shut  up  closely,  so  that 
we  would  not  carry  into  France  any  recent  news 
about  the  movement  of  troops.  This  lasted  eight 
days.  During  this  time  I  occupied  myself  to  a  certain 
extent  with  little  Leonard  Seulin  and  several  of  the 
children  who  had  been  brought  to  the  train  along  with 
him  and  turned  over  to  the  charity  of  the  travelers. 
But  there  were  mothers  of  families  among  us  who 
naturally  took  charge  of  these  little  ones. 

"We  were  a  dreary  company;  I  recall  especially 
those  with  whom  I  finished  the  journey.  There  was 
a  young  man — the  only  one  in  the  convoy — a  consump- 
tive, so  wasted,  with  his  knotted,  bluish  temples,  his 
poor,  wan,  projecting  mouth,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
tasting  continually  the  bitterness  of  an  ill  for  which 
he  had  no  remedy.  He  spoke  sometimes  to  reassure 
some  old  women  who,  in  their  agitation,  were  saying 
that  they  had  been  deceived,  that  the  Germans,  in- 
stead of  sending  us  back  to  France,  were  going  to 
keep  us  in  these  barracks  till  the  end  of  the  war.  He 
intervened  with  a  weary,  patient  voice,  and  then  he 
rapidly  turned  his  head  away  as  if  he  feared  that 
they  would  speak  to  him  about  himself.  There  was 
a  very  old  priest,  very  polite,  who  stretched  himself 
out  on  his  straw  bed  with  as  much  dignity  as  if  he 


134  FORGOTTEN 

were  sitting  in  his  confessional.  He  had  a  beautiful 
crown  of  white  hair,  little  shining,  uncertain  eyes 
which  looked  at  nothing  and  which  had  something 
soothing  in  their  absent-minded  expression.  We 
scarcely  counted  these  two  men  in  the  convoy.  Apart 
from  them,  it  consisted  of  women  who  were  either 
111  or  in  charge  of  a  number  of  children.  I  recall  one 
poor  creature,  a  woman  in  a  kerchief  who  had  great 
brown  eyes  full  of  spirit  and  deep  hollows  under  her 
cheek-bones,  and  was  carrying  her  last  baby  wrapped 
in  a  beautiful  cashmere  shawl.  When  we  were  left 
to  ourselves,  with  the  doors  closed,  we  talked  about 
the  Germans;  each  one  told  what  she  had  had  to 
suffer,  what  they  had  taken  out  of  her  house,  which 
members  of  the  family  had  been  taken  away  to  forced 
labor.  We  told  each  other,  also,  whom  we  were  going 
to  look  for  in  France,  fearful  that  they  were  not 
going  to  be  found  again.  Many  of  the  women  had 
husbands  in  the  army.  It  pierced  my  heart  to  think 
that  some  of  them  surely  would  find  no  other  re- 
sponse, at  the  end  of  their  journey,  than  the  silence 
of  the  dead.  As  for  myself,  I  was  all  the  time  in 
that  same  folly  of  security.  I  did  not  have  one  real 
doubt,  one  feeling  of  anxiety!  .  .  . 

"After  the  eight  days  of  quarantine,  we  were 
joined  at  the  frontier  by  other  groups  of  emigrants 
who  had  come  mostly  from  the  mining  country  about 
Lens,  and  were  going  to  travel  with  us.  The  journey 
across  Germany  lasted  about  thirty-six  hours.  I  re- 
tain  only   one   picture    from   it:    that  of   a  French 


FORGOTTEN  135 

prisoner  in  a  dark  blue  uniform,  who  was  digging  in 
a  field  beside  the  track  and  who,  straightening  himself 
as  the  train  went  by,  threw  us  kisses  with  both  hands. 
Little  Leonard  was  still  in  the  same  compartment 
with  me.  When  we  asked  him  if  he  had  known  his 
mother,  he  replied  in  a  slow,  level  voice:  'She  is 
dead.'  Looking  at  him,  I  felt  convinced  that  he  had 
been  present  at  that  death,  perhaps  quite  alone,  that 
he  had  contemplated  that  fearful  mystery  of  his  own 
mother  becoming  insensible,  indifferent,  turning  no 
longer  when  he  cried.  He  seemed  to  be  well  brought 
up,  shy  and  nice.  There  was  a  sort  of  astonishment 
and  resignation  in  the  depths  of  his  dumb  eyes;  his 
whole  face  was  strangely  unsmiling.  He  did  not  talk 
to  me,  but  he  gladly  kept  close  beside  me  and  showed 
me  a  sort  of  animal  confidence  that  was  very  sweet 
to  me.  This  helped  me  to  endure  an  excess  of  hope 
and  emotion  that  was  consuming  me.  I  calmed  my- 
self by  holding  his  little  hand. 

**At  Schaffhausen,  we  got  down  from  the  German 
train.  The  station  was  full  of  Swiss  women  who 
had  come  to  welcome  us  and  aid  our  poor;  they  dis- 
tributed clothes,  food;  they  opened  large  rooms  for 
us  to  wash  in.  The  children,  sitting  in  the  station, 
ate  the  chocolate  they  had  brought  for  them;  many 
of  the  women  wept;  we  were  so  exhausted  with 
fatigue!  And  in  spite  of  the  kindness  of  the  Swiss, 
France  still  seemed  far  away. 

'We  arrived  here  the  following  morning,  after 
having  spent  another  night  on  the  train.    At  Geneva, 


136  FORGOTTEN 

we  left  the  Swiss  train  to  climb  into  a  miserable  little 
tramway  that  took  us  across  the  frontier.  It  was 
snowing  heavily,  and  the  snow  muffled  all  sounds, 
threw  a  great  calm,  a  magic,  over  the  air. 

*1  believe  there  was  not  in  our  convoy  a  single 
heart  so  afflicted  that  this  hour  did  not  relieve  it. 
Our  little  boys  were  collected  on  the  platform  of  the 
tramway  and  their  excited  faces  seemed  quite  rosy 
in  the  whirling  whiteness.  Then,  when  the  houses 
of  Annemasse  came  into  sight,  they  began  to  sing 
the  Marseillaise,  all  together,  in  their  shrill  voices.  It 
was  a  moment  of  rapture. 

*The  Marseillaise!  How  did  they  know  it,  those 
little  boys  of  ten,  of  eight,  who  for  two  years  and  a 
half  had  Hved  under  the  German  oppression?  Ah! 
it  was  beautiful,  you  know!  One  felt  Hke  a  frozen 
stream  which  in  the  spring  begins  to  run  again.  .  .  . 

"I  took  the  train  that  evening,  with  Danielle,  the 
train  for  Paris.  I  hadn't  the  strength  to  think  of 
anything.  One  single  word  was  ringing  in  me  like 
a  bell  and  vibrating  to  the  very  ends  of  my  fingers: 
To-morrow !    To-morrow !" 

Little  Nise,  her  face  turned  toward  the  fire,  had 
an  absorbed  look,  like  someone  who  is  gazing  in- 
tently into  the  depths  of  a  great  pit. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "we  reached  Paris !  I  had  myself 
driven  to  that  little  hotel  where  I  had  descended  with 
Mamma  every  time  we  had  come  to  see  Max:  I 
didn't  know  of  any  other.  As  the  hour  approached 
when   I   was   going  to  find   out  about  the   fate  of 


FORGOTTEN  137 

Philip,  I  was  seized  with  fear  From  far  away,  as 
I  have  told  you,  I  had  had  no  real  doubt  for  a  long  time, 
The  sentiment  of  my  life  obsessed  me  too  much.  But 
at  the  last  moment,  faith  failed  me.  I  was  as  they 
say  somnambulists  are  when  they  are  awakened 
brusquely  in  the  midst  of  a  dangerous  action.  They 
have  a  sudden  dizziness,  don't  they,  and  sometimes 
they  fall?  The  excess  of  fatigue  had  left  my  spirit 
inert:  I  found  myself  again  in  that  hotel  where  I 
had  seen  Mamma,  Max  and  Philip;  I  felt  nothing 
but  the  emptiness  about  me ;  it  seemed  to  me  probable 
that  death  had  taken  everything  from  me. 

"As  soon  as  I  had  made  my  toilet,  I  asked  Danielle 
to  come  with  me  to  the  rue  de  rAbbe-de-l'Epee.  You 
know  it  was  there  that  Philip  had  his  little  apart- 
ment, his  little  lodging  on  the  fifth  floor,  full  of 
books  and  old  hangings.  Max  had  taken  me  there 
several  times  at  the  beginning  of  my  engagement.  I 
took  Danielle's  arm  in  the  street;  my  knees  were 
giving  way.  I  entered  the  loge  of  the  house  alone. 
An  old  concierge  was  there,  stout  and  pale,  absorbed 
in  his  newspaper.  I  was  thinking  that  my  whole  life 
depended  on  the  two  or  three  words  that  he  would 
say  to  me;  I  looked  at  his  surly,  flabby  old  mouth 
with  a  terrified  fascination.  I  did  not  know  how  to 
put  my  question.  It  was  not  the  same  concierge 
whom  I  had  seen  there  the  few  times  I  had  come. 
He  looked  me  up  and  down  over  his  newspaper  with 
an  annoyed  air.  Finally,  I  asked:  *Has  M.  Brunei 
his  apartment  here  still?* 


188  FORGOTTEN 

"'30,  avenue  de  TObservatoire/  he  replied,  and 
plunged  into  his  reading  again 

*'I  did  not  want  to  ask  anything  more:  I  knew 
that  Philip  was  alive;  I  remember  that  odd  sensation 
of  weakness  and  almost  of  pain,  as  if  my  body  was 
too  small  to  contain  the  joy  that  shook  me.  I  was 
burning  to  run  to  the  avenue  de  TObservatoire,  but 
I  did  not  dare.  He  would  not  know  about  Mamma's 
death,  I  must  tell  him  about  that  first;  and  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  me  that  he,  too,  might  perhaps 
want  to  tell  me  something  before  we  saw  each  other. 
The  concierge  had  spoken  in  a  categorical  tone  that 
seemed  to  me  to  imply  that  Philip  was  living  now 
in  Paris.  But  why  had  he  moved  if  he  was  still  in 
the  war?  Had  he  been  discharged?  Had  he  re- 
ceived some  serious  wound?  .  .  .  This  did  not 
frighten  me.  I  was  too  overjoyed  to  know  that  he 
was  alive.  It  struck  me  that  he  had  chosen  this  new 
apartment  in  order  to  wait  for  me,  thinking  of  our 
marriage,  that  it  was  the  place  where  we  should  live 
together.  I  should  not  have  wished  to  enter  it  other- 
wise than  by  his  taking  me  there.  I  went  back.  I 
wrote  him  a  long  letter  which  I  then  took  to  the  box 
of  the  pneumatic.  I  told  him  that  I  would  not  go 
out  again  until  I  had  seen  him  or  received  word  from 
him. 

"The  next  day,  immediately  after  breakfast,  I  sent 
Danielle  out  to  see  some  relatives  of  hers  who  had 
left  their  farm  on  the  outskirts  of  Vouziers  and  taken 
refuge  in  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.     I  was 


FORGOTTEN  189 

sure  that  Philip  would  come.  I  went  up  again  to 
my  room,  where  I  could  do  nothing  but  wait,  my 
eyes  closed.  Ah!  I  had  formed  bad  habits  at 
Vouziers  during  those  lightless  evenings!  Waiting, 
with  closed  eyes,  when  shall  I  cure  myself  of  that? 

"At  half -past  two,  a  little  boy  brought  me  his  card. 
I  asked  him  to  give  him  the  number  and  let  him 
come  up. 

"A  minute  after  he  entered  the  room.  He  was 
in  civilian's  dress,  the  left  sleeve  of  his  coat  hanging 
empty  from  his  shoulder,  and  flat  the  length  of  his 
body.  I  had  the  impression  that  his  figure  had 
grown  thinner  and  unsymmetrical,  that  his  balance 
was  uncertain.  He  was  extremely  pale.  I  was  so 
shocked  that  I  could  not  move.  Sitting  on  the  edge 
of  an  old  lounge,  I  held  my  clasped  hands  toward 
him  and  looked  at  him  with  tears  in  my  eyes.  He 
awkwardly  closed  the  door  and  then,  instead  of  com- 
ing to  me,  he  remained  standing  at  the  entrance  of 
the  room  like  a  man  who  does  not  know  what  is 
coming  next.  Then  I  understood  that  something  else 
had  happened  to  him  than  what  I  saw,  something 
worse.     I  asked  him,  very  low:     Thilip,  what  is  it?' 

"He  approached;  he  sat  down;  he  ended  by  saying: 
'I  have  not  kept  the  promise  of  our  engagement. 
Denise,  I  am  married.* 

'T  closed  my  eyes,  trying  to  understand.  He  said, 
wretchedly:  Terhaps  you  wouldn't  have  wanted  me 
any  more,  Denise.  You  see  what  they've  done  to 
me.* 


140  FORGOTTEN 

"It*s  unbelievable,  Adrienne,  isn*t  it?  Unbeliev- 
able, the  things  men  can  say  sometimes ! 

*'l  asked  him  if  he  could  tell  me  how  all  this  had 
happened.  I  felt  that  I  was  seeing  him  for  the  last 
time  and  that,  if  possible,  I  should  prefer  to  under- 
stand. 

"Well,  he  told  me  his  story,  since  he  had  been 
wounded  at  Verdun  last  March.  They  had,  he  said, 
amputated  his  arm  a  first  time  at  Bar-le-Duc,  then 
brought  him  to  Paris  where  it  had  been  necessary 
to  amputate  again,  twice,  and  to  end  by  taking  away 
the  shoulder.  He  told  me  that  in  the  excess  of  his 
suffering  things  had  changed,  the  past  had  grown 
dim." 

Adrienne  got  up  impatiently  and,  holding  high  her 
pretty,  sensible  head,  began  to  walk  about  the  room, 
as  young  people  do. 

"He  told  you  that?''  said  she.  And  she  thought: 
"Yes,  yes,  that's  the  way  they  are,  those  dreamers, 
those  intellectuals,  those  people  who  are  always  think- 
ing about  themselves.  That's  what  this  philosopher 
found  to  say  to  this  faithful  little  soul!  Suffering 
changes  you!  After  Nise's  story,  that  phrase  comes 
in  very  well  1" 

In  her  irritation  was  mingled  a  sort  of  severe  con- 
tentment that  she  had  married  an  engineer  who  was 
a  simple  man.  "These  Huleaus,"  she  thought,  "have 
always  had  unreal  perspectives  of  life.  How  could 
poor  Max  become  fond  of  such  a  fellow,  with  that 
spineless  face  of  his !" 


FORGOTTEN  Ml 

But  within  herself  an  impartial  voice  suggested: 
"Is  it  not  true,  all  the  same,  that  suffering  does  change 
one  sometimes?  That  a  sensibility  stirred  to  certain 
depths  lends  itself  to  new  emotions,  to  new  passions  ?" 
And  she  recalled  this  and  that  wounded  man  in  her 
hospital,  simple  men  often,  the  amorous  excitement 
of  whose  look  had  struck  her.  She  heard  the  echo 
of  certain  forgotten  words  which  men  who  had  been 
operated  upon  often  stammered  as  they  were  coming 
out  of  anaesthesia.  .  .  .  "Well,"  she  asked,  in  a  harsh 
voice,  "whom  has  he  married?" 

"A  nurse,"  little  Nise  replied,  innocently.  "He 
told  me  that  she  had  twice  helped  him  after  the 
chloroform,  at  a  time  when  he  regretted  that  he  was 
not  dead.  Before  being  wounded  he  had  passed  at 
Verdun  one  week,  in  a  filthy  hole,  among  the  dead 
and  dying,  so  frightful  that  he  was  left  with  a  sense 
of  being  crushed,  exhausted  for  good  and  all.  Alas ! 
the  one  who  had  so  powerfully  protected  me  against 
despair  I  had  not  protected  at  all!  At  the  hospital 
he  was  desperate.  He  told  me  that  this  young  girl 
who  had  nursed  him  radiated  an  influence  of  con- 
solation, of  assuagement.  I  remember  the  words  he 
used:  he  spoke  of  her  deep  tranquillity,  of  her 
strength,  of  the  beauty  of  her  gestures.  He  ex- 
plained to  me  that  he  had  found  in  her  the  cure  of 
his  soul.  That  tells  it  all,  doesn't  it  ?  The  cure !  As 
for  me,  I  had  nothing  to  bring  him  but  a  life  already 
sadly  wounded;  how  could  I  have  cured  him?  Per- 
haps, too,  I  loved  him  too  much.    There  is  no  serenity 


142  FORGOTTEN 

in  that.  And  as  for  him,  philosopher  as  he  is,  it  is 
his  instinct  to  seek  not  to  be  confused.  He  talked 
to  me  a  long  time  like  a  friend." 

"These  people  have  a  passion  for  talking  about 
themselves,"  thought  Adrienne.  "I'm  sure  he  forgot 
her  entirely  while  he  was  talking  to  her.  And  they 
always  count  on  sympathy!  Poor  child,  to  tell  her 
about  his  second  love!" 

"His  temples  were  damp,"  continued  Denise.  "He 
kept  calling  me  by  my  name.  Happily!  I  thought: 
*He  sees  clearly  he  cannot  pretend  that  we  have  not 
loved  each  other!'  He  told  me  that,  once  restored, 
he  had  acquired  the  certainty  that  this  feeling,  born 
from  his  illness,  would  last  beyond  it,  that  he  had 
taken  the  chance,  and  that  he  found  the  young  girl 
loved  him  also.  They  became  engaged  in  July  and 
were  married  in  September  in  Brittany,  at  the  sea- 
shore. I  wanted  to  know  the  day:  it  was  during 
the  very  week  when  I  had  lost  Mamma !  .  .  . 

"I  asked  him  if  his  wife  had  known  of  his  first 
engagement.  He  became  uneasy,  and  replied  with 
agitation  that  she  had  not.  She  did  not  know — it 
was  not  necessary  that  she  should  know;  it  would 
have  given  her  a  very  troubled  conscience.  He  was 
silent,  and  then,  after  a  moment,  he  said:  'She  is 
very  devout.'  As  I  answered  nothing,  I  felt  that  he 
was  growing  more  and  more  disturbed;  his  agitation 
made  me  indignant,  and  I  was  too  proud  to  say  the 
word  that  would  dispel  it.  I  felt  myself  blushing. 
He  noticed  nothing  of  this;  his  face  was  absorbed; 


FORGOTTEN  143 

he  was  only  thinking  of  his  wife;  it  was  as  if  he 
had  seen  her  before  him,  her  whole  being  full  of 
reproach  and  pain.  He  ended  by  saying  in  a  timid 
voice  and  with  a  note  of  tenderness  that  almost  made 
me  scream:  'J^st  now,  especially,  she  needs  to  be 
very  carefully  handled/  Then,  in  his  turn,  he 
blushed  suddenly  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  carpet. 

"  *But,  Philip,*  I  said  to  him,  'it  would  never  have 
entered  my  head  to  disturb  your  wife's  peace  of 
mind." 

Adrienne  savored,  as  it  passed,  this  new  irony:  the 
archangel  of  serenity  menaced  by  little  Nise! 

The  latter  continued: 

'There  followed  a  silence  between  us — it  was 
hideous.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  me  any  more, 
and  as  for  me,  I  felt  myself  becoming  as  Hfeless  as  a 
stone. 

"I  looked  at  him,  nevertheless,  especially  at  his 
beautiful  forehead  and  his  drawn  temples  which  I 
had  once  so  loved  to  touch,  and  I  said  to  myself: 
'Well,  it's  finished.  .  .  .  Well!' 

"We  talked  a  little  more.  He  told  me  that  he 
was  discharged,  that  he  had  returned  to  his  course 
in  philosophy  and  the  preparation  of  his  thesis. 

"Then  he  rose  and  murmured:  'Denise,  if  I  could 
have  believed  that  I  should  find  you  again,  this  way, 
in  this  mourning,  in  this  solitude.  .  .  .'  But  he  did 
not  finish  this  phrase.  He  asked,  simply:  *Am  I  not 
going  to  see  you  again?  Is  there  no  way  in  which 
I  can  be  of  service  to  you?'     I  signified  that  there 


144  FORGOTTEN 

was  not.  He  insisted  again:  ^Everything  is  over?' 
Adrienne,  was  it  not  cruel  of  him,  was  it  not  atro- 
cious of  him,  to  ask  this?  I  was  so  tempted — even 
after  all  the  torture  he  had  made  me  pass  through, 
I  tell  you — to  throw  myself  against  his  mutilated 
shoulder — that  shoulder  which  the  other  one  had 
nursed — to  embrace  him  as  I  used  to  do,  him,  my 
friend,  my  fiance,  my  only  treasure,  and  to  say  to 
him:  'Hide  me  somewhere!  Carry  me  away!'  So 
tempted!  If  I  had  spoken  I  should  have  said  this. 
I  made  a  sign  with  my  head  that  he  must  go.  He 
left  at  this,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  ended. 

"What  do  you  think  one  can  do,  Adrienne,  when 
one  is  in  despair?  During  the  first  two  hours  after 
he  had  left  me,  I  was  very  calm.  I  had  some  little 
sewing  to  do.  When  Danielle  returned,  I  called  her 
and  we  worked  together,  while  we  said  the  rosary. 
Since  Mamma's  death  I  had  formed  the  habit  of  often 
sewing  in  the  same  room  with  Danielle.  At  eight 
o'clock  I  told  her  to  prepare  my  bed  and  go  to  dinner. 
As  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone  in  that  room  where 
he  had  talked  with  me,  I  felt  actually  ill.  It's  odd, 
isn't  it?  Ill,  icy  cold,  with  my  teeth  chattering,  and 
so  weak  that  I  had  to  sit  down  several  times  while 
I  was  undressing. 

"I  felt  this  at  first  more  than  the  grief:  this  ter- 
rible chill  all  over  my  body  and  a  dimness  of  the  eyes 
such  as  they  say  people  experience  when  they  are 
dying.  I  went  to  bed,  I  put  out  the  light:  I  passed 
the  whole  night  without  sleeping,  without  moving.    It 


FORGOTTEN  145 

seemed  to  me  that  my  heart  would  have  broken  at  the 
least  movement.  It  was  as  if  I  were  delivered  over 
to  a  force  that  was  protecting  me  against  the  violence 
of  my  pain,  preventing  me  from  stirring,  preventing 
me  from  thinking.  In  an  absolute  passivity  I  heard 
the  echo  of  Philip's  words  and  my  own;  they  struck 
in  my  head  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer ;  I  submitted 
to  them,  unable  to  control  them  or  to  rise  above  them 
by  any  reflection  whatever.  Since  then,  I  have  told 
myself  that  this  moral  torture  greatly  resembles 
physical  torture.  The  intelligence  can  do  nothing 
against  it.  One  is  seized,  caught  up,  actually  eaten 
away,  gnashed  and  gnashed  again  during  these  hours. 
One  tries  in  vain  to  make  oneself  small,  submissive, 
to  keep  quiet:  the  torturing  machine  is  there;  it  works 
with  all  its  teeth ;  one  would  say  that  it  holds  you  by 
the  feet,  by  the  hands.     It's  horrible !  .  .  . 

'Tn  the  morning,  as  I  still  did  not  move,  Danielle 
came  in  several  times  to  ask  me  about  my  indisposition. 
I  remember  that  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  aston- 
ished me  when  I  replied  to  her,  it  was  so  dry  and 
changed.  And  I  said  to  myself:  Well,  it's  finished, 
I  am  not  young  any  longer.  I  shall  get  into  the  habit 
of  not  being  loved  by  anybody.  I  shall  probably 
always  speak  like  that.' 

"Toward  noon,  I  dressed  rapidly  and  went  out. 
Returning  toward  evening,  I  said  to  Danielle: 

"  'M.  Brunei  has  come  to  see  me.  Many  things 
have  happened  to  him  during  the  war.  He  has  been 
wounded.    They  cut  off  one  of  his  arms,  and  then  he 


146  FORGOTTEN 

has  been  married/  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  cries  of 
that  good  woman  would  drive  me  mad.  I  had  had 
myself  such  need  of  crying!  I  said  to  her:  *Don't 
think  any  more  of  it,  Danielle.  If  you  knew  how  I 
have  decided  to  forget  him!'  I  who  had  never  dis- 
sembled !  I  who  had  wept  in  her  arms  after  Mamma's 
death! 

"Of  the  three  days  that  followed,  I  preserve  only 
a  confused  memory.  I  know  that  I  have  never  in  my 
life  walked  so  much.  It's  odd,  but  I  had  never  looked 
so  closely  at  the  faces,  the  objects,  the  shop- windows 
about  me.  Have  you  noticed  how,  when  you  are  in 
pain,  what  you  see  stamps  itself  on  your  mind?  At 
the  dentist's,  for  example?  ...  I  remember  down  to 
the  least  details  a  little  restaurant  where  I  lunched: 
the  marble-topped  center-table,  the  chairs  painted  with 
a  green  smudge,  a  group  of  foreign  students,  speak- 
ing a  harsh-sounding  language  and  laughing  loudly, 
and  the  manager,  and  the  little  waitress  who  surrep- 
titiously doubled  the  portion  for  me.  ...  I  evidently 
had  the  face  of  one  who  is  suffering  from  hunger.  It 
was  very  dark  and  very  nasty  weather,  that  week 
before  Christmas — I  don't  know  whether  you  recall 
it? — and  what  faces  one  encountered,  cadaverous, 
careworn,  harassed,  with  always  the  same  weak,  sad 
lines  from  the  nostrils  to  the  mouth,  and  then,  from 
time  to  time  in  the  mass,  a  pretty  woman,  a  creature 
altogether  of  a  different  species  from  the  others,  with 
red  cheeks,  shining  teeth,  a  light,  buoyant  way  of 
turning  her  head,  an  air  of  satisfaction.    Every  time 


FORGOTTEN  147 

I  saw  one  like  this,  I  wondered  if  she  resembled 
Philip's  wife,  and  the  words  that  he  had  said — the 
cruelest  words  of  all — burned  in  me  more  fiercely: 
'Just  now,  especially,  she  needs  to  be  very  carefully 
handled/ 

"One  evening,  I  went  to  the  Sorbonne,  where  Max 
had  taken  me  two  or  three  times  to  listen  to  a  course 
in  which  he  was  passionately  interested.  I  saw  a 
line  of  people  crowding  up  to  the  door  of  an  amphi- 
theater, and  I  took  my  place  among  them  and  entered. 
The  course  was  one  by  just  that  professor  whom  Max 
had  loved  and  of  whom  his  letters,  formerly,  had 
spoken  almost  every  day.  When  he  came  in,  thin  and 
grizzled  behind  the  usher,  he  gave  me  the  impression 
of  a  sort  of  manikin,  the  relic,  the  shadow  of  a  man. 
Near  me,  I  heard  some  young  girls  whispering,  and 
I  realized  that  they  were  pitying  him  for  having  lost 
his  only  son.  For  an  hour  he  talked  about  Greek  his- 
tory, in  a  dead,  mechanical  voice;  there  was  no  one 
to  listen  to  him  but  women  and  a  few  shabbily- 
dressed  foreigners.  I  have  never  seen  anything  so 
sad.  It  soothed  me.  There  are  moments  when  one 
comes  to  rest  on  one's  sorrow  as  a  swimmer  floats  on 
his  back.  One  seeks  nothing,  one  ceases  to  imagine 
that  anything  else  exists ;  one  is  calm  there,  bathed  in 
a  somber  fluid  that  penetrates  into  one's  last  recess. 
One's  inner  resistances  give  way,  the  throbbing  dies 
down  and  one  believes  that  the  end  of  the  struggle 
has  come,  that  one  has  truly  surrendered.  Besides,  I 
may  tell  you  that  at  no  moment  did  I  have  a  feeling 


\ 


148  FORGOTTEN 

of  revolt.  Oh !  I  see  clearly  that  I  shall  never  make  a 
rebel;  I  haven't  the  stuff  of  it  in  me!  But  the  hardest 
thing  for  me  was  to  understand,  to  get  the  facts  into 
my  head,  to  plant  them  there  at  the  very  root  of  my 
inner  life,  which  was  so  entirely  made  up  of  my 
love  for  Philip. 

I  wandered  about  at  random;  I  looked  at  all  the 
faces;  I  looked  especially  at  the  mutilated  men  each 
one  of  whom  was  for  me  like  a  shadow  of  Philip, 
and  I  was  terrified  to  meet  such  a  great  number  of 
them.  I  went  into  the  churches;  several  times  I 
stopped  at  Notre-Dame.  I  leaned  against  a  column 
of  one  of  the  transepts  and  looked  at  the  great  north 
rose-window,  which  is  so  sad,  cold,  blood-stained, 
glorious,  like  a  promise  of  paradise  suspended  very 
far  above  our  human  wounds.  And  the  cold  of  the 
lifeless  stone  against  my  shoulder  did  me  good. 

"One  afternoon,  I  found  myself  on  the  edge  of  a 
great  cemetery ;  I  believe  it  was  the  cemetery  of  Mont- 
parnasse.  I  entered  it ;  I  stayed  there  a  long  time.  It 
was  snowing;  no  one  had  come  to  visit  the  dead  at 
such  a  miserable  time.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  would 
give  everything  in  the  world  to  find  myself  at  Vouziers 
again,  by  Mamma's  grave.  As  I  was  going  out  at 
nightfall,  I  saw,  against  the  high  wall  hung  with 
ivy,  a  man  and  a  woman  who  were  kissing  each  other. 
I  looked  at  them,  so  near  the  dead,  they  who  were 
as  I  myself  had  still  been  a  few  days  before:  people 
for  whom  death  did  not  exist!  They  were  a  soldier 
in  a  muddy  uniform  and  a  bedraggled  woman.    How 


FORGOTTEN  149 

long  had  they  been  thirsting  for  each  other!  They 
did  not  move  as  I  passed;  I  did  not  see  their  faces, 
but  I  felt  the  passion  of  that  poor  woman,  the  tension 
of  her  whole  thin,  motionless  body.  She  was  sus- 
pended there  like  a  lark  at  the  summit  of  its  flight. 
Surely  they  no  longer  knew  that  it  was  cold  and 
dark;  they  were  no  longer  wretched;  everything  was 
beautiful  for  them,  I  went  on,  believing  myself  calm. 
Things  like  that  hurt  one  like  a  poison  that  only 
reveals  its  effects  little  by  little. 

'*I  went  home.  I  found  Danielle,  her  eyes  red  from 
weeping,  who  put  me  to  bed  and  brought  me  some 
broth. 

"A  Sunday  came,  the  fourth  Sunday  in  Advent, 
which  was  also  Christmas  Eve.  A  great  desire  had 
risen  in  me  to  see  that  young  woman  who  is  now 
Philip's  wife.  In  spite  of  my  suffering,  I  had  not  yet 
altogether  come  to  believe  in  her  reality.  There  was 
something  in  me  that  did  not  believe  it.  As  I  have 
told  you,  I  had  so  formed  the  habit  of  having  inner 
recourse  to  my  fiance !  I  had  led  with  him  a  dream- 
life  which  after  two  and  a  half  years  had  ended  by 
being  almost  as  real  as  reality.  I  closed  my  eyes  and 
he  was  in  the  room ;  I  wept  and  he  supported  my  head 
on  his  shoulder.  It  was  an  illusion  so  intense,  a 
union  so  tender,  that  I  had  sometimes  said  to  myself: 
'When  we  are  reunited,  that  will  be  no  sweeter.' 
Well,  as  you  can  understand,  this  habit  continued:  it 
is  just  as  when  one  is  sitting  by  a  dead  person,  one 


150  FORGOTTEN 

still  believes  that  one  sees  him  breathing.     And  I 
thought:    *If  I  see  him  with  his  wife,  it  will  be  ended/ 

"He  had  told  me  that  she  was  devout,  and  he  him- 
self was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  mass.  We  had  gone 
together;  we  had  followed  it  two  or  three  times,  one 
beside  the  other,  very  attentively.  It  had  always  been 
my  impression  that  he  did  not  have  very  much  faith, 
but  the  things  of  the  church  pleased  him.  I  wanted 
to  try  to  see  them  at  mass,  to  which  I  had  no  doubt 
they  went  together — and  late,  probably — for  she  'had 
to  be  handled  carefully.' 

'T  went  to  the  eleven  o'clock  mass  at  Saint- Jacques- 
du-Haut-Pas.     They  did  not  come. 

"I  waited  still:  at  noon  they  arrived;  I  saw  him, 
himself,  walking  behind  her  in  the  dim,  filtered  light 
of  that  church.  A  tall  young  woman — oh !  Adrienne, 
so  pretty,  but  not  like  those  pretty  women  who  haven't 
the  air  of  belonging  to  the  human  race! — with  long 
brown  eyes,  long  lashes  over  colorless  cheeks,  and  a 
beautiful  curved  nose.  She  wore  a  black  hat  the  brim 
of  which  rose  at  the  back  over  a  knot  of  Auburn  hair, 
radiant  and  perfectly  arranged;  a  jacket  of  otter,  a 
gray  muff.  This  showed  me  that  Philip's  menage  was 
better  off  than  I  would  have  made  it.  She  walked 
well,  with  a  long,  easy  step.  Her  face  was  serious, 
calm,  with  an  expression  of  gentleness  and  reserve. 
I  followed  her  with  my  eyes  and  took  a  seat  at  one 
side,  in  the  rear,  at  a  spot  from  which  I  could  see  her 
slender  back,  her  beautiful  knotted  hair,  and,  at  three- 
quarters,  her  pale  cheek.     This  was  almost  hidden 


FORGOTTEN  151 

from  me  by  the  big  black  hat.  She  followed  the 
whole  mass,  and  when  I  saw  that  she  was  praying,  I 
began  to  pray  also,  asking  for  the  strength  to  accept 
this  and  to  live  according  to  my  destiny. 

"At  one  moment,  I  saw  her  lean  slightly  toward 
Philip,  pointing  out  with  her  finger  some  line  in  his 
book,  some  text  that  had  struck  her.  I  realized  how 
happy  she  must  be;  into  that  sensibility  of  Philip's, 
so  fine,  so  vibrant,  which  knew  how  to  respond  to 
everything,  she  could  make  every  one  of  her  thoughts 
pass.  And  she  already  had,  in  that  simple  gesture, 
such  an  air  of  security!  One  would  have  said  that 
she  had  had  him  always.  I  had  the  impression  that 
she  was  proving  to  me,  in  all  sweetness,  in  all  good 
faith,  and  invincibly,  that  I  had  never  existed.  And 
yet,  I  pitied  her  a  little  for  the  harm  she  had  done 
me,  harm  such  as  I  would  not  wish  to  have  done  any- 
one— nor  she  either,  IVe  no  doubt.  .  .  . 

**When  the  mass  was  over,  they  went  out;  I  fol- 
lowed them  with  my  eyes  in  the  column  of  people  who 
were  pressing  toward  the  door;  then  I  went  out,  I 
saw  them  descending  the  steps;  she  stopped,  they 
smiled  at  one  another;  she  partly  opened  her  coat, 
slipped  her  fingers  into  the  pocket  of  her  jacket  and 
drew  out  a  few  sous  which  she  placed  in  the  bowl  of 
a  beggar.  They  walked  away,  and  I  could  follow 
them  no  longer. 

"I  had  seen  them;  I  realized  my  misery.  He  had 
met  a  woman  much  more  beautiful  than  I,  better,  too, 
probably.    They  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other; 


152  FORGOTTEN 

perhaps,  even,  it  was  the  heart  of  the  young  girl  that 
had  been  moved  first.  .  .  .  So,  it  was  inevitable, 
wasn't  it?  The  one  you  sacrifice  cannot  be  the  one 
you  love. 

"I  was  crushed  with  fatigue,  I  felt  weak;  my  grief 
slumbered,  heavy,  immense,  but  calm,  within  me.  In 
the  afternoon  I  went  to  church  again — another 
church — I  heard  vespers,  the  benediction,  a  long 
sermon,  all  in  the  midst  of  a  torpor  of  exhaustion.  I 
thought  of  Mamma,  as,  in  the  time  when  I  was  nurs- 
ing her,  I  had  thought  of  Philip — with  that  same  im- 
pression of  casting  myself  upon  a  sure  refuge  outside 
the  world.  I  did  not  have  the  courage  to  turn  my 
eyes  forward  toward  any  sort  of  future,  but  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  laying  down  my  whole  life,  one  con- 
fused mass  of  sorrow,  on  the  knees  of  my  poor 
Mamma.  I  felt  that  no  one  would  ever  have  pity 
for  me  except  she,  out  of  the  depths  of  her  eternity. 
I  called  down  her  sanctified  hand  upon  my  vanquished 
head.  Ah !  I  had  Jean,  yes ;  I  had  not  found  him  up 
to  that  moment ;  now  I  know  that  he  is  at  the  front ; 
we  write  to  each  other.  But  he  will  never  know  what 
I  have  suffered.  Can  one  tell  these  things  to  boys? 
Their  own  life  is  too  young,  too  exuberant,  for  them 
to  be  capable  of  pity. 

"And  then,  my  friend,  I  went  back  over  the  past. 
I  said  to  myself:  *No  one  will  have  pity  for  me,  but 
for  whom  have  I  felt  pity?  Hardly  for  Mamma!' 
Those  words  of  the  Saviour's  agony  pronounced 
themselves  in  my  spirit:    *What !    Could  ye  not  watch 


FORGOTTEN  153 

one  hour  with  me?*  I  realized  that  it  had  for  me  an 
appalling  verity.  I,  who  had  passed  so  many  nights 
at  Mammals  bedside,  asked  myself  if  I  had  indeed 
watched  with  her,  taken  her  sorrows  on  myself,  sym- 
pathized  with  her  as  I  had  just  entreated  her  to  sym- 
pathize with  me.  I  saw  it  clearly:  when  I  was  striv- 
ing so  hard  to  comfort  her,  I  was  seeking  to  thrust 
back  the  pain  of  hearing  her  groan.  Her  martyrdom 
was  not  immediately  my  own.  I  continued  all  the 
time  to  think  of  Philip,  of  my  love,  to  feel  that  bliss 
that  perpetually  grazed  my  soul.  .  .  .  And  at  last  I 
came  to  the  memory  of  the  hour  of  which  I  have  told 
you,  that  terrible  hour  of  egoism  and  frenzy.  I  tasted 
the  most  profound  humiliation.  I  realized  that  my' 
too  covetous  heart  had  merited  its  disaster.  And  the 
idea  came  to  me  that  perhaps  it  would  be  my  lot,  the 
use  that  had  been  found  for  me,  to  remain  simply, 
through  my  sorrow  itself,  a  being  who  believes  in  sor- 
row and  has  pity. 

"Slowly  I  drew  myself  away;  I  had  scarcely  eaten 
for  six  days  and  I  was  very  weak.  I  think  that  if 
anyone  had  offered  me  a  hand  to  support  me,  I  should 
have  accepted  it.  There  was  no  cab  nearby  and  the 
evening  was  cold.  I  returned  on  foot,  went  to  bed 
and,  for  the  first  time  since  Philip's  visit,  I  slept  a 
sleep  that  was  calm  and  without  dreams. 

"Toward  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  awoke.  It 
was  Christmas  night  and  the  hour  when  once  we  had 
returned  to  the  house,  Mamma,  my  brothers  and  I, 
after  the  midnight  mass.     I  sat  up  abruptly;  I  was 


154  FORGOTTEN 

very  wide  awake,  quite  tense,  without  any  feeling  of 
fatigue.  I  had  the  impression  that  there  was  some- 
thing that  I  must  do,  some  decision  for  me  to  take, 
some  hope  for  me  to  embrace ;  I  felt  that  I  had  come 
to  the  end  of  wandering  and  wasting  away  with 
thoughts  of  myself.  And  yet  I  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  what  was  going  to  happen.  My  heart  throbbed 
in  great  separate  strokes.  For  several  seconds  I  re- 
mained so,  my  eyes  open  in  the  darkness,  and  then  I 
felt  rising  from  the  depths  of  myself  the  image  of 
that  orphan  of  Vouziers,  that  little  Leonard  Seulin, 
with  his  forsaken  face,  those  eyes  of  his  into  which 
the  coldness  of  death  had  entered.  I  said  to  myself: 
'It's  that,  it's  he ;  there  is  the  thing  for  me  to  do,'  and 
I  had  a  feeling  of  great  joy. 

"The  evening  of  that  Christmas  day,  that  very 
evening,  I  set  out  for  Annemasse,  leaving  Danielle  at 
the  hotel.  I  found  immediately  the  young  woman 
who,  at  our  arrival,  had  taken  charge  of  the  little 
orphans  of  our  convoy.  I  told  her  why  I  had  come 
und  what  I  had  decided  to  do.  She  did  not  seem 
surprised.  She  was  a  charming  person,  a  pastor's 
wife ;  she  had  a  happy,  serious  face,  full  of  innocence, 
a  face  of  good  augury.  She  took  me  to  the  house 
where  Leonard  Seulin  was  staying,  a  good  Savoyard 
peasant's,  who  had  six  other  little  orphans,  repatriated 
like  himself.  The  house  was  a  little  off  the  road  and 
one  saw  from  afar  its  green  shutters  in  the  midst  of 
an  immense  field  of  snow.  We  entered ;  the  children 
were  playing  in  the  kitchen.     They  were  all  clean 


FORGOTTEN  155 

and  well-clothed.  Leonard  was  the  latest  arrival. 
Hardly  ten  days  had  passed  since  we  had  stepped 
down  together  in  the  square  of  Annemasse.  None 
of  the  others  bore  on  his  face  that  fixed  look  of 
stupefaction  and  melancholy.  He  recognized  me,  but 
did  not  smile  at  me.  I  asked  him  if  he  would  like  to 
come  with  me,  never  to  leave  me  again.  He  looked  at 
me  with  his  grave  eyes  and  nodded  his  head.  In  a 
few  hours  the  first  formalities  were  settled ;  I  had  the 
right  to  take  Leonard  away.  We  were  in  Paris  on 
the  morning  of  the  twenty-eighth.  Danielle  has  not 
been  very  pleased.  .  .  ." 

Both  women  were  silent  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Adrienne  Estier  asked: 

"You  are  going  to  keep  him  always?" 

"Naturally." 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

"Yes,  I  have  that  happiness.  I  love  him  more 
deeply  every  day.  When  we  are  alone  together  and 
the  thought  of  our  common  misery  and  weakness 
overwhelms  me,  I  take  his  little  head  between  my 
hands,  and  I  feel,  then,  that  this  poor  little  crumb  of 
love  from  which  we  draw  our  nourishment,  he  and 
I,  is  enough  to  bind  us  to  life,  blending  us  with  the 
immense  communion  of  beings  who  love  one  another. 
For  a  heart  that  has  believed  itself  cut  off  from  the 
company  of  the  living,  that  is  a  resurrection." 

"Denise,  take  care;  you  are  very  young  still,  even 
if  you  don't  believe  it!  And  so  loving!  Love  rises 
again,  as  you  say,  in  the  heart,  the  true  love,  that  of 


156  FORGOTTEN 

the  lover  for  the  lover!     Don't  create  for  yourself 
a  duty  that  is  too  absorbing." 

Denise  shook  her  forefinger  before  her  little  face, 
with  its  intense  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said,  "that,  no!  If  Philip  had  broken 
his  word  with  me  after  a  month  or  two  of  our  en- 
gagement, I  would  say  to  you:  perhaps.  .  .  .  Although 
.  .  .  what  an  enchantment  it  is!  Is  it  possible  that 
one  does  not  remain  embittered  for  good  and  all  ?  But 
I  lived  too  much  by  him,  in  him,  during  those  thirty 
months  of  silence  when  I  gave  him  the  whole  passion 
of  my  soul.  What  passes  in  these  depths  of  suffer- 
ing and  desire,  nothing  can  ever  efface  again.  No, 
you  see.    No." 

There  was  a  silence.    Then  Denise  went  on: 
I  shall  adopt  others,  later.    Just  one  is  not  enough  I 
— ^and  then  I  should  love  him  too  much ;  I  should  end 
by  becoming  a  burden  to  him.  .  .  ." 

Denise  rose  to  go,  and  when  she  had  buttoned  hci; 
cape,  she  seized  her  friend's  hands: 

"Adrienne,  come  with  me  as  far  as  the  hotel,  I  beg 
you.  It  has  done  me  so  much  good  to  talk  to  you, 
you  can't  guess!  One  needs  a  witness,  someone  who 
sees  you.  That  gives  you  strength.  I  feel  I  have 
enough,  now,  to  do  something  I  haven't  yet  done. 
But  if  you  let  me  go  alone,  I  don't  know,  perhaps  I 
shouldn't  be  able  to,  after  all." 

Without  asking  any  questions,  Adrienne  put  on  her 
hat  and  her  fur  jacket  again.  They  set  out  together. 
The  snow  had  been  falling  all  day  and  the  moon  was 


FORGOTTEN  157 

turning  the  deserted  streets  blue.  On  the  way,  Denise 
said: 

"It's  good  to  breathe,  isn't  it,  Adrienne?  The  air 
has  a  snowy  taste.  I  feel  it  now  as  if  I  ha3  risen 
from  my  grave." 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Will  you  believe  it?"  Denise  went  on:  "After 
I  saw  Philip  again,  I  lived  at  first  in  such  mortal 
fear,  then  I  went  through  a  struggle  that  was  so 
hard,  not  to  be  simply  blotted  out  by  my  grief,  to 
save  my  life,  my  soul,  that  I  did  not  shed  one  tear, 
not  one!  I  passed  from  despair  into  action  almost 
without  relaxing,  save  for  that  night  of  grace,  that 
Christmas  night!  There  were  days  when  I  would 
have  gladly  wept — that  is  so  no  longer.  I  have  re- 
nounced that  comfort.  And  now  this  is  what  I  love, 
this  sharp  air  of  night,  this  calm,  impassive  light  of 
the  moon  which  makes  my  heart  cold  in  the  very 
spot  where  it  was  for  so  long  on  fire." 

They  reached  the  Hotel  Corneille.  Denise,  passing 
in  first,  led  her  friend  across  the  half-lighted  entrance- 
hall,  which  smelled  of  cooking,  up  the  staircase  and 
then,  by  a  long,  padded  corridor,  to  her  room.  She 
turned  on  tiie  electric  lamp  that  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing. "Danielle!"  she  called.  A  door  opened  and  a 
tall,  bony  woman  with  beautiful,  glistening  gray  hair, 
combed  at  the  back,  entered  the  room.  A  pale  gleam 
lighted  up  her  smiling  face  and  her  little  gray-green 
eyes,  deep-set  under  the  thick  eyebrows. 


158  FORGOTTEN 

"Mademoiselle  Adrienne!"  she  cried. 

Adrienne  squeezed  her  hand. 

"You  call  her  'mademoiselle/ ''  said  Denise,  "and 
she  the  mother  of  a  family!" 

"Mademoiselle  Adrienne!"  repeated  the  old  serv- 
ant,   "It  isn't  possible!" 

"But  it  is,  Danielle — and  I  hope  you'll  soon  see 
my  baby." 

"Has  Leonard  gone  to  bed?"  asked  Denise. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"Come  and  see  him,"  said  Denise  to  her  friend. 
"Danielle,  won't  you  please  light  the  fire  in  my  bed- 
room?" 

The  two  friends  passed  into  the  adjoining  room. 
At  the  foot  of  the  maid's  bed  there  was  a  crib  where 
a  little  boy  in  a  white  nightgown  was  still  sitting,  his 
face  turned  toward  the  door. 

Adrienne  noted  with  a  touch  of  sad  irony  this  little 
suggestion  of  the  timid  maternity  of  the  young  girl. 
She  thought  of  the  plump  baby  whom  she  installed 
every  morning  on  her  pillow  and  whose  rosy  little 
feet  she  kissed.  Denise  had  always  been  very  modest ; 
nervous  and  passionate  as  she  was,  she  would  pass 
part  of  the  night  thinking  of  the  child.  Adrienne 
imagined  her  gliding  to  the  door,  to  listen  whether  he 
was  breathing  well  and  not  having  bad  dreams — ^but 
she  would  have  been  no  longer  herselt  if  she  had  been 
able  to  resolve  to  have  him  sleep  in  her  own  room. 
The  little  boy  looked  at  them,  his  eyes  full  of  silence. 
He  was  strangely  beautiful.    The  electricity  threw  a 


FORGOTTEN  159 

hard  light  over  the  smooth  forehead  under  his  thick 
hair,  his  straight  nose,  his  fine  well-set  neck,  with  its 
little  crease  into  which  a  heavy  curl  had  slipped,  his 
little  white  hands,  marked  still  with  the  dimples  of 
babyhood. 

"WHiy  do  people  always  speak  of  the  beauty  of 
women,"  the  pretty  Adrienne  said,  quite  low,  to 
Denise,  "when  beings  like  that  exist?" 

Denise  embraced  Leonard  and  spoke  a  few  words 
in  his  ear.  Adrienne  approached  smiling,  and  said: 
"How  do  you  do,  Leonard?"  The  child  raised  to- 
ward her  his  large,  sad  eyes,  his  taciturn  mouth. 
Without  resisting,  he  let  her  stroke  his  hand.  When 
they  moved  away  he  had  an  expression  of  pain;  he 
pulled  Denise's  sleeve:  "Not  you,  godmother;  stay 
here."  Denise,  kissing  his  forehead,  said  quite  low: 
"Godmother  will  come  back  right  away."  There  was 
a  gleam  in  her  eyes  as  she  entered  her  own  room 
behind  Adrienne.  Danielle  lifted  the  screen  from  a 
pile  of  blazing  wood,  and  went  out.  Denise  opened 
a  drawer  in  a  mahogany  table;  she  took  out  a  port- 
folio. 

"YouVe  guessed  it,"  she  said ;  "they  are  his  letters. 
I  have  twenty-two  of  them.  I  risked  everything  to 
bring  them  with  me.  A  little  servant  who  meant  to 
leave  in  our  convoy  was  held  back  for  having  put  In 
her  trunk  a  photograph  of  her  dead  mistress,  on  the 
bottom  of  which  had  been  written,  'Souvenir.' 

"Perfect  folly,  wasn't  it?  I  was  going  to  him,  and 
I  had  to  risk  my  happiness  in  order  not  to  be  sepa- 


160  FORGOTTEN 

rated  from  his  letters!  I  sewed  them  at  the  bottom 
of  my  trunk  between  the  canvas  and  the  wicker.  Con- 
sidering the  way  in  which  they  examined  our  baggage, 
they  ought  to  have  found  them  twenty  times.  What 
folly!  .  ,  . 

"Well,  you  sec,  I  have  not  yet  had  the  courage  to 
destroy  them.  I  have  not  read  them  but  I  know 
that  they  are  there,  and  so  long  as  they  are  I  shall 
not  truly  have  accepted  my  life.  Come,  Adricnne,  1 
haven't  the  strength;  put  them  in  the  fire!** 

She  placed  between  the  hands  of  Adrienne  Estier 
the  packet  of  thin,  crackling  leaves,  covered  with  a 
fine,  scholarly  handwriting;  and  opening  the  window, 
she  leaned  on  the  balustrade. 

Two  or  three  minutes  went  by  in  absolute  silence. 
Then  Adrienne  placed  her  fingers  on  her  friend's 
shoulder  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "It's  done."  Denise 
did  not  move,  and  Adrienne,  leaning  forward,  saw 
through  the  crepe  veil  the  white,  contracted  profile 
turned  toward  the  moon,  the  tips  of  the  fingers  rest- 
ing on  her  teeth. 

Suddenly,  Denise  sought  Adrienne's  hand,  carried 
it  to  her  mouth,  passionately  pressed  her  lips  to  it. 
'Thank  you,"  she  stammered.  "Leave  me.  It  is  fin- 
ished, now.  Put  out  the  light  as  you  go,  I  beg  you. 
Thank  you,  thank  you!" 


THE  END 


YB  392T3 


